


Whether Clouds or Clear Skies

by onewasturning



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewasturning/pseuds/onewasturning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You, young Harold, are a baker among curry houses and vintage clothing stores,” Louis says, and it forces a bark of surprised laughter out of Harry.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I’m a— sorry, what?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Harry,” Louis says, “last night I had an experience bordering on profound.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You’re making it sound like you did something sexual with my muffin,” Harry says.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, Louis gets into the habit of stealing baked goods while Harry’s busy keeping tabs on the weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whether Clouds or Clear Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raspharrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspharrys/gifts).



> For [Hannah](http://rasp-harrys.tumblr.com) and [Eva](http://happilou-y.tumblr.com)! Congrats, congrats on graduating! ❤
> 
>  
> 
> TW for copious mentions of food, and a misguided statement about body weight.
> 
> This is not magical realism.

In the heart of East London, surrounded by pockmarked brick façades, organic markets, boutique stores, and patchwork graffiti, stands a little bakery. It’s a small thing, so narrow that it risks inconspicuousness and is almost swallowed up by the street. However, the simple wooden shop front, painted white, holds large glass windows that frame bright displays too inviting for those walking past not to stop and pause. Sugar-crusted galettes, glazed danishes, and chocolate and custard-filled tarts, so freshly baked that the aroma permeates the glass, draw people inside to its small warm interior. And it’s the flavours – sweet, rich, tart, whimsical, bold – that keep them coming back, looking carefully for the quiet space between the quirk and bohemia of the East End.

Inside, treading down the timber planks in front of the gleaming display counter, the shop opens up into an enclosed courtyard with a gable roof made of glass, letting in all the natural clouded light of London. Hanging plant orbs and pots of flowers and ferns are strung from the ceiling over wooden picnic benches, while strings of rattan ball lights and grayscale photographs line the white walls. Along the middle of the benches sit mason jars holding sandalwood and vanilla candles, and Harry thinks, perhaps, that they might just be his favourite things about his little bakery – thinks that it’s wonderful that such a small thing can make a place feel like a home. Because that’s what scent is, isn’t it? Memory and comfort and taste all rolled into one.

It’s the end of the day now, just a little past seven, and November has the skies dark and cold, and the streets filled with yellow light and the hurrying steps of people trying to get someplace, anyplace, warmer. It’s already rained twice today, trekked puddles along the floor of the shop its testament, and there had been a sharpness to the chill when Harry had taken out the rubbish, hinting at more. He tries not to dwell on it now, but his fingers hit the keyboard of his Mac a little too harshly as he inputs the daily sales, and his jaw clenches along his back teeth like they’re trying to grind steel. November has always frayed his nerves a little.

Niall, in his own world as always, is just finishing sweeping the floor at the back. He’s singing along loudly to the YouTube video that he’d made Harry put on of some Irish band he’s discovered, dipping the broom and twirling around the floor like he hasn’t already smacked his dodgy knee into every available surface and edge in the room.

“A world without you; what would I do?” he croons, dancing over to Harry and peering over the top of his laptop, broom end held to his lips. “What would I do without you?”

“Die, probably,” Harry says, not looking up from the screen. Zayn had installed a bookkeeping program for him a month ago before he left, and while it makes for a lot less work, the accounts remain boring beyond all measure. He really needs to find a proper accountant.

“More like become a world famous guitarist,” Niall says, lifting the broom to demonstrate an imaginary riff, face pain and all.

Harry closes the program, promising himself that it’s in pause, not defeat, before stepping out from behind the counter. He scuffs the toe of his boot on the corner, and even though the bakery interior is still relatively new, there’s already a little worn indent promising that he’ll do it again and again.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, straightening up easily and taking the broom. “How can someone who actually plays guitar be so shit at air guitar?”

“It’s not air guitar, it’s with a broom,” Niall points out, like Harry’s the idiot in this situation. “So it’s _broom_ guitar. And if I’m so shit, then show me what you’ve got, arsehole.”

“The key is obviously having the right tune,” Harry says, turning the laptop around and thinking for all of two seconds before changing the YouTube page to The Smiths’ _How Soon Is Now?_

“No song change is going to up your game, mate,” Niall says, crossing his arms, but as the electric guitar kicks in, his foot’s already tapping on the floor.

Harry undoes his bun, narrows his eyebrows and hefts the broom up, angling for what he thinks could be construed as a chord. “I’ll fucking show you—”

It’s the bell tinkling over the doorway of the bakery and the breath of cold air that follows, which stops his arm mid dramatic strum, preventing him from releasing the broom riff that would’ve convinced the devil to spare his soul.

Wide-eyed and frozen in place, Harry looks up to see a boy equally wide-eyed and frozen in place staring right back at him.

Harry takes in the loose black hoodie, and the jeans tight enough to emphasise the knobbles in his knees. He takes in the little creases under blue eyes, that make them seem large and guileless, and the unruly mess of his hair and the stubble along his jawline that tell him otherwise.

Mostly though, Harry notices how all over – from the fine strands of hair on his head to the canvas of his shoes – he’s covered in a fine layer of rain that looks like mist against the black, like the air could be glistening around him. And Harry’s heart thuds in place, the reason muddled in the moment.

It’s then that Niall takes it upon himself to burst into wild, raucous laughter.

“Hello?” the boy says, glancing at Niall’s red-faced wheezing and then back at Harry, who is still holding the broom immobile. Morrissey moodily bemoans his social ineptitude in the background.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?” he asks, when neither of them responds.

Harry sheepishly drops his stance and leans the broom against the counter.

“Um, no, you’re right. We were just. Just, you know—” Harry says, with a vague hand wave that nearly sends the broom toppling. He catches it and rights it carefully, while Niall’s laughter turns into hiccoughs.

“Broom guitar competition,” Harry finishes, looking up to meet his eyes.

The boy’s eyes are crinkled slightly in the corners, and his mouth is pressed tightly together, and it does nothing, absolutely nothing, to hide the amount of amusement he’s trying to suppress.

“Naturally,” the boy says, nodding. “Can’t say I’ve tried it myself, but yeah, I can see the appeal.”

“It’s a skill really,” Harry says. He leans an elbow against the counter and only slides a little on the glass. “Some might even say, a calling.”

“Right, right,” the boy says, before pointing to Niall, who’s now giggling between hiccoughs. “Is he going to be alright? Shall we call for help?”

“Not sure anything will help what he’s got,” Harry says, kicking out towards Niall.

Niall lets out an indignant yelp, kicking back at Harry’s foot.

“Fuck you,” he says without heat, and Harry thinks he’s going to say more, but he just stands a little straighter and smiles genially at Louis, cheeks rosy and tear-tracked.

“Anything we can help you with?”

“Uh,” the boy says, glancing around at the empty display cases. “I was meant to be picking up some macarons for a mate, but by the looks of things, I’m a little too late.”

“Sorry,” Niall says, “we close at 6:30, must’ve forgotten to turn the sign. Got time to pop in tomorrow?”

“Might have to make time,” the boy says with a grimace, reaching up to push back at his fringe. Harry watches the mist that clings to his hand after. “They’re his favourites,” the boy adds. “Meant to be an apology for being late to an important meeting the other day.”

“Bit ironic that you’re late to pick up his apology for being late,” Niall says.

The boy laughs, giving a helpless shrug. “Not sure if that’s irony or just perpetual tardiness.”

The song finally ends, and YouTube loads Joy Division’s _Love Will Tear Us Apart_. It’s not nearly as riffable.

“Well, I,” he takes a step back and points a thumb behind him at the door. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Wait,” Harry says, heading behind the counter before the boy can leave. He pulls out the Tupperware container filled with leftover muffins. “They’re not macarons, but maybe they could help tide your mate over. On the house, because I’m not supposed to sell leftovers.”

“Really?” the boy says, already moving forward to inspect the selection. “Well, can’t say I’m one to turn down free food.”

As he peers down his eyelashes sweep down, dark and long and with a hint of rain.

Harry clears his throat. “There’s, um, clementine and tarragon,” he says, pointing them out. “That one’s apple, chestnut and honey, and that’s beetroot and cranberry. We had chocolate and passionfruit, and date, ginger and walnut, but they sold out.”

When the boy seems to hesitate, Niall steps forward. “They’re all good, trust me; no one does flavours like Harry. My personal favourite’s the clementine. Had two today already.”

The boy pushes his fringe back again, sucking his cheek in thought. It does lovely things for his cheekbones, pink-tipped with cold.

“Since they come so highly recommended, I guess I’ll take the clementine. And maybe the apple as well for me,” he says with another helpless shrug, grinning up at Harry, who smiles back.

Harry folds a takeaway box and places them inside carefully, before pressing on a sticker – _Styles Pâtissier and Artisan Baker_.

“Styles, I take it?” the boy says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Harry Styles.”

“Louis,” the boy says, still grinning, reaching over to take the box. “Nice to meet you.”

The tips of their fingers brush as Louis takes the box in sure hands, and it’s like the fine drops of rain on Louis’ skin go skittering back, evaporating into the sweet air.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says quietly as Louis turns to leave, waving behind him.

“Cheers, see you tomorrow!”

Harry watches as the door shuts, Louis’ small figure jogging through the rain, the box tucked under his jacket and hood turned up. There’s a feeling in his gut, like he’s just tripped or his toes are skimming the fine line of a tightrope and there’s nothing but waiting air underneath. His fingers keep the memory of the touch – where the rain skidded away.

“Hey, stop staring at the door,” Niall says. “You’ve bloody forgotten I’m here, haven’t you?”

Harry turns to poke his tongue out at him.

“No, just wishing you weren’t,” Harry replies blithely, and he probably deserves it when Niall pushes him into the cash register.

*

“Thanks,” the girl says, brown eyes smiling sweetly as she takes the tea and the potato and artichoke pullapart Harry is handing her. His fingers are still stained from the turmeric, coconut and apricot truffles that he’d been making earlier, and colour kind of matches the fresh henna she has trailing down her hands.

“Say hi to your mum for me, Aalia,” Harry says, smiling back. “Try not to trip down the aisle!”

“I’m not you, Harry,” she says with a wink, before the door chimes shut behind her, leaving the bakery at peace for the first time that morning.

It’s just after eleven, and the breakfast and elderly shopping crowd has died down, taking with them the majority of the morning stock, display cases left empty of croissants and muffins and scrolls. Niall’s ducked outside for his break, and most likely his daily salt beef bagel, and for a moment Harry’s able to adjust his bun and rest his head against the counter, groaning as his aching back clicks into place.

He knew it would be hard work – God knows he’d been told often enough – but sometimes it feels like there’s always a part of him throbbing, that the bags under his eyes have dug a permanent home for themselves there, and that the profit he does make just ends up being put back into repairs and better equipment. This has been his dream for so long, from when his mum first helped him take Gemma’s birthday cake out of the oven when he was seven, and it was cracked and burnt at the edges and perfect and filled with pride, but sometimes – 

Sometimes, it’s a lot. And sometimes, he just needs to close his eyes and pretend he has the time to book himself into a back massage or find himself an accountant.

He must zone out for a second, because he doesn’t even hear the bell, or the muffled footsteps approaching the counter.

“Uh, Harry? You alright, there?” 

He opens bleary eyes to see Louis leaning on the counter with his head propped up on one hand, looking down at him, an amused expression on his face.

“Yeah, um,” Harry says, lifting his head slowly. The counter space isn’t very big to begin with, and Louis is close enough that Harry can see the faint freckles that line the cut of his cheekbones and the reddish tinge to his stubble. He smells like chips and strawberry pop, and it reminds him of going to the beach with his Gran and Pop and Gemma when he was ten and being chased by frenzied seagulls. 

Louis blinks ocean eyes at him, still so close, and Harry thinks, they’re the clearest blue that he’s ever seen. They hold his own, unwavering, like there’s nothing worth hiding. 

“Sorry, um. Must have nodded off for a moment,” Harry finishes after a pause, when he remembers that there’s a question still left hanging.

He pushes himself off the counter slowly, and Louis does the same, slowly, like a mirror image, and Harry has to look for something to do with his hands before they do something silly like place themselves in the air like a mime in a box. In lieu of finding anything useful, he clasps them behind his back. He notices that Louis is also shoving his hands into the pockets of his oversized shearling denim jacket.

“Must’ve been knackered,” Louis says. There’s a little dent in the corner of his mouth, but it looks more kind than mean.

Harry shrugs awkwardly. “You know, early mornings and all that. I’ve been doing this for over a year and still have to hit the snooze button twice before I can even begin to think about getting out of bed. Wouldn’t even be standing right now if it weren’t for coffee.”

“I understand completely,” Louis says with a nod. “Excluding the coffee. Personally, I think it’s rude to expect people to be functional any time before nine.”

Harry laughs. “To be honest, I think it’s rude for anyone to even _be_ functional before then.”

“Rude and _disrespectful_ ,” Louis agrees, mouth splitting into a smile.

“Which is why you’re perpetually late.”

“Exactly. Leading by example, me.”

“You’re a man among men, Louis,” Harry says, grinning.

“And you, young Harold, are a baker among curry houses and vintage clothing stores,” Louis says, and it forces a bark of surprised laughter out of Harry.

“I’m a— sorry, what?”

“Harry,” Louis says, eyes wide with sincerity and mouth turning expressive, “last night I had an experience bordering on profound.”

“You’re making it sound like you did something sexual with my muffin,” Harry says, and he can already feel his dimples burning into his cheeks.

“Oh believe me, don’t think for a second it didn’t cross my mind,” Louis says, and it’s so ridiculous – _Louis_ is so ridiculous – that Harry can’t even stutter out a response.

“Best muffin I’ve ever had doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Louis carries on, one hand escaping his pocket to gesture ardently. “And I don’t even like chestnuts, Harry. _I don’t even like chestnuts_. Almost ate me mate’s before he got home, too.”

It’s probably lucky that there’s no one else in the shop – firstly, because Louis’ voice has risen above what is considered publicly acceptable, but also because Harry thinks he might do something embarrassing soon, like fling himself across the counter to hug Louis breathless. He knows, or at least he assumes from the fact that he has regular customers, that people like his baking, but it’s another thing to hear it proclaimed so loudly and enthusiastically, when all of ten minutes ago he was beginning to question all that had brought him to this point in time. He has to take a deep breath to calm the ache winding through his chest.

“I’m really glad you liked it,” he manages to say, and Louis looks at him carefully then steps back and surveys the display cases.

“I’ll have one of everything,” he announces, and Harry startles, before he continues, “is what I would say if I had more than a tenner in my wallet.”

“We take credit,” Harry says through a laugh, and it’s only the slightest bit wet around the edges.

Louis raises his eyebrows. “I like how you assume I have a credit card.”

“How about,” Harry says, reviewing the selection, “you take a seat and I’ll pick something out for you?”

Louis nods and says, “I’ll take you up on that offer and raise you a cup of tea. Yorkshire or regular builder’s, I’m only slightly picky.”

Harry grins, and it’s pretty much uncontrollable at this point. “I think we can do that.”

Louis walks towards the bench at the back, and Harry only takes a moment to wonder at the curve of him in the tightness of his ripped jeans, before putting the kettle on and assessing what’s left of the morning stock.

He thinks about the strength of the tea, and the sweetness of the muffin, and the salt of the chips on Louis’ breath. It’s an easy choice, really.

When the tea is done, he hangs up his apron and flips the sign on the door, then arranges the teapot, cups and two desserts on a tray, before bringing them over to set down in front of Louis.

The rain has cleared up this morning, and it’s uncharacteristically sunny, although still cold enough that Harry can see the glass above them is clouded with steam. The filtered light has turned the flyaway hairs on Louis’ head golden, and cast shadows underneath his eyelashes, and he looks a little rough and a little delicate all at once. He looks really beautiful is the thing.

Harry sits down next to where Louis is perched, and Louis pours them both out some tea, while Harry sets the desserts in front of each of them.

“Well, tell me what I’ve got, Harold, don’t keep a man waiting,” Louis says, picking up a fork like he’s readying himself.

“Like, I don’t usually make a lot of cakes,” Harry says, twining his fingers in his lap, “because it’s harder to deal with the leftovers. But I thought you might like this. It’s called a hummingbird cake, and it’s made with banana and pineapple, with cream cheese and lemon icing, and salted pecan brittle.”

“Never heard of it,” Louis says, before immediately cutting himself a large chunk and stuffing it in his mouth, chewing meticulously and steadily, and ignoring Harry’s expectant look.

After he’s swallowed, Louis puts down his fork and turns his whole body towards Harry, reaching over to cover his hands with his own, and quirking an eyebrow at their orange hue. His hands are warm and just a little bit smaller than his own, with bitten-down stubby nails, and Harry kind of wants to lift them and press them to his face, rub them against his cheeks to feel how soft they are.

“Harry,” Louis says, large eyes focused and hypnotising, “I have a serious request, and you cannot say no.”

There’s a little bit of icing on his upper lip, and he may just be the most bizarre person that Harry’s ever wanted to kiss.

“Then it’s not really a request, is it?” Harry says, but Louis’ shushes him by placing a finger to his lips, pressing harder when they spread into a smile.

“Harry,” he says, “sweet, beautiful Harold Styles – will you marry me?”

“Yes, Louis,” Harry says against Louis’ finger, with all the solemnity he can muster. “I don’t know your surname and my name isn’t Harold, but yes; I will marry you.”

“Jesus, that escalated fast,” Niall says, and Harry snaps his head around to see his most hated employee standing in the doorway, smirk plastered on his face. Harry has a sinking feeling that he may never, ever live this down. He also really needs to check that bell.

“Bit too soon for marriage, innit?” Niall asks, wandering over and dropping down across from them on the bench, looking a bit too self-satisfied for Harry’s liking.

“You’re just jealous of our love,” Louis says, except it’s muffled because he’s speaking around another mouthful of cake.

Niall nods towards the Jaffa cheesecake Harry has in front of him. “You going to eat that?”

“Yes,” Harry says, stabbing it forcefully with his fork. “If you want some, you can get your own.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Niall says, standing up and walking back over to the counter. “Only paying customers get served, eh?”

“Yes, Niall, that’s generally how it goes,” Harry says dryly.

Niall makes sure Harry sees the generous size of the slice he’s cut, and when Harry shouts out, “I’m docking your pay for that!” he just flips him off and stuffs a forkful in his mouth. Sometimes Harry doesn’t know why he’s even friends with him.

When he faces Louis once more, he’s looking at him in scrutiny, and the only things left on his plate are what looks suspiciously like lick marks.

“Alright, then?” Harry says.

“Harry, it’s not every day that I ask someone to marry me,” Louis says. “Every other week at most, but certainly not every day. So that’s a big compliment.”

Harry thinks that’s probably not too far from the truth.

“I feel honoured,” he says, and Louis just beams at him, brighter than the sunshine filtering through the ceiling.

“Seriously, though,” Louis says, reaching for his tea. “If you weren’t already a baker, I would probably be begging you to become a baker. You’ve got a nice little set up here, Styles.”

“Cheers,” Harry says. “That— that means a lot.”

They sit there in silence while Harry finishes his cheesecake, and Louis drinks his tea. In the background, Harry can hear Niall refilling the display cases and flipping the sign back over on the door to let people in, and he’s reminded why Niall’s his only and best employee. Niall switches the music back on, changing the playlist that had ended earlier, and Vampire Weekend fills the silence, sweet and comfortable, and Harry doesn’t know why, but there’s a feeling in his chest, like approaching summer and the smell of mint and elderflower and endless, rainless days.

When the silence finally breaks, it’s to Louis nudging his shoulder against Harry’s and asking, “So how long have you two known each other?”

“Me and Niall?” Harry says. “Um, nearly seven years, I think? Met him in uni, back when we were still freshers and I thought that business was my calling. We were put into this share flat with these two other guys who turned out to be the biggest wankers imaginable, and then ended up moving out and living together for the rest of uni.”

“Must be close,” Louis says. He’s staring at Harry again, gaze direct and half-lidded in consideration, and Harry has to take a breath before he speaks.

“Yeah, we are,” Harry says. “We’ve been through a lot together. I mean, he’s an arsehole, but he’s also my best mate. So, I yell at him sometimes, but I’m not going to fire him for stealing all the cake or anything. So…yeah.” He shrugs.

Louis grins at that, then puts his cup down and bounces up and steps out of his seat.

“I’ve got to go now, work and such awaits. But I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Um, okay?” Harry says, and then Louis is rushing out, yelling, “Bye, Harry! Bye Niall!” and surprising an elderly woman coming through the door, who clutches at her cardigan in shock.

He’s gone before Harry can even find his bearings.

Harry exchanges a confused look with Niall, who says, “He didn’t pay for that, did he?”

He looks down at the plate, licked clean, and the tea, not a drop left.

“Nope.”

*

At the end of the day, Harry’s got the ladder out and is retying the bell clapper that had fallen out. Not too long after Louis had left, the shop had filled up once more with the early lunch crowd, followed by the lunch and then the late lunch crowd, and the day had passed just as quickly as it usually did. Yet, instead of the drained feeling that had Harry pressed down on the counter earlier, he finds himself breathing easily through it. He feels proud and accomplished, and like another day or week or month of the same wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you two in there,” Niall says, looking out at Harry from the corner of his eye as he bags up the leftover bread for the soup kitchen delivery. “All coy and flirting and touching.”

Harry groans, the string loosening and slipping out of the loop. “That wasn’t flirting, Niall, for God’s sake.”

“He fucking asked to _marry you_ ,” Niall says incredulously.

“It’s called banter!”

“No, you useless get, it’s called flirting!” Niall says, throwing up his hands.

“Shut up,” Harry says, giving up on the bell and climbing back down the ladder. “Like you even know what flirting is. I’ve seen you try to come on to Gemma.”

“What the hell is wrong with my flirting skills?” Niall says.

“Oh hey, Gem,” Harry simpers in an exaggerated Irish accent, “did you need another drink? Can I get anything else for you? Are you cold? I could, like, warm you up with my hot Irish blood. Hey, did you know I’m Irish?”

Niall stares stonily at him for all of five seconds before they both burst into laughter.

“Fuck, you’re right,” Niall says, wiping at the corners of his eyes.

“I’m _always_ right,” Harry says haughtily.

Niall rolls his eyes. “Yeah, except about Louis. You were both flirting, and the sooner you admit to it, the sooner you can get on with it.”

Harry shakes his head but doesn’t answer, just helps Niall bag up the rest of their leftovers.

When they’re done, Harry helps carry the bags to Niall’s car, parked a good 200 metres away, because it’s always impossible to find parking around here.

They place the bags delicately in the backseat so they don’t get squashed, and then Niall drags him into a hug, letting Harry squeeze him tightly, head buried in his neck.

“You know it’s complicated, Ni,” he says, words barely comprehensible from where his mouth presses into fabric.

Niall always understands him, though.

“I know, Haz,” Niall says, rubbing his back.

“He’s really pretty,” Harry says mournfully.

“I know.”

They stand there for a minute, until the cold gets too much, and then Niall’s smacking a kiss to his cheek, saying, “Get some rest, Haz. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry waves until he’s out of sight, then jogs back towards the shop, weaving in between the passing folk. It’s only when he reaches the door that he looks up suddenly, the clear starless sky staring right back at him.

It hasn’t rained once today.

*

Louis comes in after the late lunch rush, in a quiet corner of the afternoon that Harry has long thought about putting aside for an afternoon nap. The sun is mellowing, on the edge of sunset, and when Harry presses his hand up to the glass it leaves an imprint in the gathering chill. The usual crowds treading the footpaths have dwindled to scatterings of people, unhurried and unguided, haphazard in their pacing.

A city settling; and Harry’s bones in turn liberating their unwanted weight, like long-awaited release. His head and chest feel buoyed far above all that seeks to ground him, and November feels wonderfully, enigmatically new.

When Louis walks in, Niall is busy settling the bill for the last remaining customers, a young couple already charmed, with a baby in its father’s arms that merely scrunches its nose warily at Niall, and refuses to wave as they leave.

It’s such an easy thing, such a natural thing, to see Louis walking through the door with a smile on his face, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie and hair artfully awry. It feels natural for his own mouth to curve instinctively in response, like maybe his body has been unburdened for the sake of this boy filling him in.

Niall waves away Harry and his hopeful look as soon as he spots Louis, and Harry leads him to the steps of the stairs to his flat. They sit down in the middle, and he places a dark chocolate and pear éclair in Louis’ hand, and watches it smudge the curl of his lips; watches the stretch of his neck as his head tips back with a moan. Harry presses his hands between his knees, and doesn’t trace the veins there on Louis’ neck, or press close enough to feel the blood pulsing underneath his mouth.

He’s so focused on things he _must not do_ that it takes a pinch to his thigh to realise that Louis is actually talking, demanding attention.

“So, I actually forgot to buy the macarons yesterday,” Louis is saying, slightly embarrassed.

Harry releases the lip caught between his teeth, mouth quirking into a wry grin. “Do you mean…forgot on purpose?”

Louis bumps him in the shoulder, looking mock offended. “I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re trying to insinuate, Harry.”

“Absolutely no idea, huh?” Harry says, bumping him back.

Louis raises his chin and looks up at him under his long lashes, challenging. “None whatsoever.”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “I guess that means that after you buy them today, then you won’t have any reason to come back, right?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Louis says, dragging his words out in exaggeration. “I actually do recall saying that I wanted to have one of everything. Can’t stop coming before I’ve made good on my word, yeah?”

“I make different things every week,” Harry points out. “That could literally take forever.”

Louis grins in triumph. “Then I suppose until sometime in the unforeseeable future, I’ll have to keep coming back.”

Harry ducks his head, biting back his grin and the stirring of feelings within. “Yeah. I suppose you will.”

The bell that Niall had managed to fix tinkles as another customer enters the shop, but there’s a quiet between them, a held gaze that might turn infinite, and a steady, calm beating in the middle of Harry’s chest.

Until Louis starts bopping his head and singing, soft as a whisper, “‘Cause you keep me coming back for more. And I feel a little better than I did before,” and Harry throws his head back and laughs, and the calmness ruptures through him into something like joy.

*

Louis spends a good ten minutes weighing the pros and cons of the macaron flavours in front of him, before finally settling on green tea and red bean, lemon, pumpkin and spice, bourbon vanilla, apple and rosemary, and honey quince. Harry’s unsure if he’s picking for his friend or just for himself at this point, but he actually pays this time, and Harry pretends not to notice when he tries to sneakily slip his change into the tip jar.

He spends another ten minutes taking up space in the doorway while they exchange goodbyes, before Niall threatens to beat them both to death with the broom.

There’s a splattering of rain on the glass as they close up shop and Harry turns away from it without a second glance.

*

A few days later, Harry comes back from picking up some supplies to see Louis and Niall sitting at the bench laughing.

“ _Hey_ ,” he says, standing in front of them and frowning. “Don’t have fun without me.”

Niall rolls his eyes and heaves himself up. “You’re an idiot, did you know that?”

“Are you going? Stay and chat with us,” Louis says, looking between them.

Niall snorts, walking back towards the counter. “Yeah, no, I’d prefer to keep my lunch down, thanks. You two are properly disgusting.”

It is not with satisfaction that Harry watches Niall amble away, but it is not with dissatisfaction either.

“So, Haz,” Louis says, when Harry sits down, “I have a proposal for you.” He’s bouncing a little in his place, like the energy running manic inside of him has found a small way of escaping. Harry wants to reach out and hold his knee just to see if he can feel the vibrations that must be buzzing under his skin.

“Are your proposals anything like your requests, and do I have any say in the matter?” Harry asks.

Louis considers for a moment, before deciding, “You have a say, but I’d really, really, really like you to say yes.”

Harry leans an elbow on the table, and raises his eyebrow in a leer. “Then propose away, baby.”

Louis shakes his head with a barely-hidden grin, but there’s an unexpected blush high on his cheeks, and Harry considers sliding a finger down the open buttons of his shirt to see what else that might get him.

“See, my friend Liam’s having his make-up birthday, and I was wondering if you did, like, special orders,” Louis says.

“Why is he having a make-up birthday?” Harry asks, bemused. “What happened to the first one?”

Louis grimaces. “Badly timed break-up. I think they might have been trying to save on having to buy him a present.”

“Ouch,” Harry says. “Guess I’ll have to do it then.”

“Yeah?” Louis says in delight, practically clapping his hands. “You sure? We’re going to pay you and everything, I swear.”

Harry lets out a loud laugh. “I bloody well hope so. You’re a money drain as it is!”

Louis reaches out and twists his nipple, and continues, ignoring Harry’s drawn out and pointed ow, saying, “There is one condition, though.”

“There’s a condition to me agreeing to bake your mate a birthday cake?” Harry says a bit dubiously, rubbing his sore nipple.

“Yeah,” Louis says, and his leg’s now jogging up and down a little nervously. “And this one’s non-negotiable.”

“Yeah, see, I’m not exactly convinced _anything_ so far has been negotiable,” Harry says, laughing.

Louis’ mouth twists. “Shut up. The condition is that you have to come to the party, too.”

Harry thinks he hears Niall muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking flirting” behind them, but Louis is looking at him almost anxiously, and Harry’s mouth is stretching into a smile so wide that it’s threatening to break his face.

“Louis, are you asking me to come as your date?” Harry says, and he’s trying for coy, but it might be contradicted by the way he’s beaming uncontrollably.

“ _No_ ,” Louis says. “I’m asking you to come hang out. And to bring a cake. And to belatedly celebrate the joyous and miraculous birth of my best mate.”

“And?” Harry prompts.

“And maybe snog a bit, I don’t know, we’ll have to see where the night takes us, won’t we, Harry, I’m not a psychic for Christ’s sake,” Louis says quickly, before scrambling up and making a show of looking at his non-existent watch. “Oh look at the time, must dash!”

He turns around as he’s halfway out the door, pointing a finger at Harry. “It’s on Saturday, I’ll pick you up at eight and Liam likes chocolate. Tell Niall he can come, but only if he behaves.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Niall says, but Louis is gone, shouting, “See you tomorrow!” behind him.

Harry strolls over to the counter, but Louis has already disappeared into the crowd.

“I hate you both,” Niall says. “But I’m coming, because there’s going to be cake.”

Harry slings an arm around his shoulders and smacks a wet kiss against his cheek. “I’d make you a cake whenever you want, Ni. But thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Niall says, shrugging him off. It’s a gentle shrug, though. 

He glances out the window again, shaking his head a little disbelievingly. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, smile tugging into place. “He’s something else, alright.”

*

That night Niall comes up to the flat for a dinner of sautéed Brussels sprouts with crispy bacon, herb-crusted steak, and leftover pumpkin, pear and gorgonzola flatbread. They eat on the worn-out brown leather couch that was one of Harry’s first ever pick-ups, and later settle back, a repeat of _The Vicar of Dibley_ playing on the telly and mugs of Harry’s experimental hot cinnamon apple cider in their hands. It’s not alcoholic, because Niall still has to drive home, but there’s just something relaxing about having a drink after a long day at work, letting it mellow on your tongue and warm you bone-deep. The smell of cinnamon reminds him of his mother’s hair and Christmas, and he feels the tension in his muscles dissipating, melting him into the leather.

They’ve got a bunch of CVs on the coffee table in front of them for a new permanent-casual position, and after giving them all a half-hearted glance, they’ve whittled it down to the only two they can really remember - a sweet and intelligent girl called Jade with thick black and blue ombre hair, and a tall Spanish psychology student called Javier with jaw line you could cut a rock on.

“I like Jade,” Niall says, squinting at the CV, giving the pretence that he’s actually reading through her qualifications instead of merely choosing based on personal interest. “She seemed like a fast learner and like she’d be good with people.”

Harry snorts. “If we hire her, you can’t date her, Ni.”

“I know that,” Niall says, narrowing his eyes at him over the paper. “I just think it would be nice to have a girl around. Balance out the testosterone a bit.”

“Yeah, because it’s our overwhelming masculinity that’s the real issue here, not our running ourselves off our arses,” Harry says, bursting out laughing.

“Well it might be if we hire Javier,” Niall says pointedly, jabbing the paper at Harry. “Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about the lack of female professionals in the food industry?”

“And hiring a woman, who is essentially going to be a glorified waiter, is going to help that?” Harry says, laughter still shaking at the edges of his words.

“Maybe,” Niall says belligerently. “It might.”

He takes a sip of his cider and relaxes back on the couch, laying his feet over Harry’s lap. It says a lot about their friendship that Harry only holds him in place when Niall slides a little on the cushions rather than pushing him off and onto the floor.

“You know, Haz,” he says slowly, “if you’d asked me a few weeks ago, I would’ve said Javier were exactly your type. Older, dark, nice face, bit different.”

“What do you mean ‘a bit different’?” Harry asks, reproachfully.

“You know,” Niall says, waving his hand in the air and almost spilling his cider. “You like men that have different perspectives to you. Or, that are cultured and come off a bit pretentious. Or, who can, like, teach you things.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry says, looking at the ceiling and the telly and everywhere but Niall. He’s always been a shit liar.

“You _know_ ,” Niall says, rolling his eyes. “Like Nick with his fashion and obscure music collection. And Ben with his spirituality and the whole yoga and meditation thing.”

“That’s not why I dated them,” Harry says. “There was more to them than that. You make it sound like I—”

“I don’t mean it like that, you giant tit,” Niall says. “I’m not trying to argue with you, I’m just saying that if a guy were to look he might see a bit of a pattern. _And_ that maybe that would make Jade the better option.”

“I liked her better anyway, you know,” Harry grumbles.

Niall pokes a toe at his thigh and Harry sighs, tipping his head back on the couch. It’s been a busy day like always, and he’s exhausted and his head feels muddled and stupid, even without the alcohol. The cider is cooling in his hands, condensation collecting along edges of his fingers, and that combined with this useless conversation is reminding him of too many things all at once. Things like rain-soaked clothes and boys that taste like petrichor and fucking heartbreak. Unbidden, he thinks of Louis’ hands that night in the bakery, covered in storm mist. How fine-boned yet sure they were. 

“Maybe I don’t even like that kind of thing anymore,” he murmurs.

They sit in silence for a while, Niall turning his attention to the programme and laughing at Jim Trott’s mutterings until it’s time for him to head back, early morning shifts forever dinting their late nights.

“You know I’m just joking about Javier,” Niall says when he’s getting ready to leave, tying the laces of his Converse at the door. “I know you’re not interested in him like that. It’s just, if you’d asked me a few weeks ago...”

“Yeah, I get you,” Harry says, helping to haul Niall up when he makes grabby hands at him. “But.”

“I know,” Niall says, and he’s always been so much more perceptive than people give him credit for. “I give you crap about it, but I like seeing you with him. It’s kind of like how you were in uni, all cute and adorable, if you get what I mean.” He grins and it’s a bit crooked, a little wry. “Not that I don’t love you now, annoying as you are.”

And Harry does know what he means. He used to be a lot of different things.

He pulls Niall into a short hug, says, “Love you too, dickhead,” and pushes him out the door.

*

Saturday rolls around, and Harry closes shop a little early to spend a few hours finishing the cake that he had begun preparing the night before. He doesn’t usually make cakes with more than two layers, just doesn’t have the time, but he finds himself enjoying being able to flex his creative muscles. He had lost track of time flicking through icing options and decorations, pencil stuck behind his ear, while lining up cocoa powders with different cacao percentages and cacao nibs along his kitchen bench.

He had drawn up a sketch of the cake to begin with, contemplating flavour combinations and seasonality, before showing it to Niall, who had made thoughtful suggestions before giving it his approval. To those who didn’t know him well, Niall appeared to have little distinction between foods, eating everything and anything that was placed in front of him. But Harry had come to learn over the years that Niall had a taste memory that could rival his own, as well as a gift for seemingly odd flavour combinations. Some of his best creations had been spawned from off-hand remarks Niall had made about herb and spice and fruit pairings and, “Have you ever thought about…?”

Once the cake is finished, he pops it in the freezer, then rushes upstairs to get changed. He’s in and out of the shower in minutes, leaving behind a cloud of coconut-scented steam. Pulling on a pair of tight black jeans and a black-and-white leopard print button up, and finishing with a tattered pair of heeled Chelsea boots, he runs his hands a couple times through his hair until it flops at an okay angle, then rummages around for his phone, keys and wallet.

As he’s about to head downstairs, he grabs his long black coat and takes a deep, steadying breath. It had been drizzling outside earlier, and the thought makes knots of his insides.

Niall’s already in the shop, and lets out a low whistle when he sees Harry descending, before breaking into an exaggerated slow clap.

“Shut up,” Harry says. “Did you know, I can’t actually remember the last time I went out?”

Niall scratches his chin for a bit, hazarding, “When Anne came here for her and Robin’s anniversary weekend in June.”

“Fuck,” Harry says succinctly.

“Fuck,” Niall agrees.

There’s the sound of a car horn outside and Harry looks up to see a Renault 4x4 out the front. He quickly goes to grab the cake from the freezer, making sure that it’s stable and not going to move around a lot, before heading out with Niall, who locks the door behind them.

They wait under the sunblind as Louis steps out of the driver’s seat in dark blue jeans and a black shirt that’s buttoned up to the base of his throat, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s clean-shaven and his hair is swooped up like James Dean, and it pins Harry right between the ribs.

Niall leaps into the front seat before Louis has even greeted them, proclaiming, “Bagsies!”

“Uh, alright,” Louis says, blinking. He turns to Harry, smile sweet and a little crooked at the edges. “Hiya.”

“Hey,” Harry says, voice dipping lower than expected. “You look nice.”

“Not so bad, yourself,” Louis says, and he’s bouncing a little on his toes, his fingers scrunching into the hem of his shirt. He nods towards the cake. “Need me to hold that while you get in?”

“Cheers,” Harry says, handing the box over carefully, before quickly hopping into the car and buckling up in the centre seat. Louis knees up a little on the seat to pass him the cake, face tense with concentration, and Harry’s chest tightens further, urging him to pull Louis in and keep him close until its release.

Once they’re all settled and have just set off, Harry pokes Niall in the shoulder. “You know, it’s good manners to give the tallest person the front seat.”

Niall turns around and rolls his eyes. “That’s only if the car is full, idiot. Plus, there is no way I’m going to endure watching you two hold hands or exchange sickening looks the whole drive over.”

“You’re such a knob,” Harry says, as Louis coughs loudly from the driver’s seat.

Niall ignores him, saying, “So whereabouts do you live, Louis?”

“Got a flat in Chelsea,” Louis says. “Only been there for a couple months, so the place isn’t completely trashed yet.”

Niall lets out a low whistle. “Chelsea? Nice. Must be doing well for yourself to be staying there.”

Louis shrugs, but can’t seem to help the proud little smile. “Yeah, we’re doing okay. Been doing very well recently, actually.”

He catches Harry’s eye in the rear-view mirror and Harry grins back. Niall was probably right in calling shotgun, because he’s not sure if he would have been able to stop himself from reaching out and touching.

“Stop it,” Niall commands, flapping his hand between them. “Save it for when I’m at least halfway drunk, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Louis says, still smiling. Harry doesn’t think he’s sorry in the least.

Niall and Louis spend the rest of the ride arguing over what’s on the radio, which somehow leads to that week’s football broadcast. They play off each other, comfortable in their banter, while Harry watches the streetlights dancing over Louis’ skin, content to remain silent. Through the Blackfriars Underpass the car burns under the led lamps, and Harry is mesmerised by the shadows cutting against his cheeks and the glow of his adept, gentle hands moving along the wheel. Harry is beginning to realise that even when his words are sharp, and energy seems to be pulsing through him, Louis feels steady. He feels safe.

When they step out on the curb at Louis’ flat, Harry feels a small hand at his back, and he turns to see Louis looking at him, contemplating.

“You right?” he asks quietly. “Bit quiet in there.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

*

The party is just getting going when Louis takes them in. Their living area is surprisingly spacious, furnished in black leather and a wide screen TV playing a cycle of hip-hop and RnB remixes. Louis helps Harry place the cake in the fridge, moving aside old takeaway containers and cans of beer, before offering to show them around. He smiles at a few people, pressing kisses to cheeks and introducing Harry and Niall briefly, but makes no indication that he plans on letting them out of his sight.

Down the hall, one of the bedrooms opens up into a large patio garden lined with outdoor sofas, propane heat lamps warming the clusters of people around them. At the side is a bartender preparing drinks and Harry’s hit with a sudden craving for a vodka tonic, even to just calm his nerves a bit. Right now he can feel just how long it’s been since he’s actually gone out and tried to interact with people in a way that is completely unrelated to his work – simply looking at everyone talking and laughing around them makes him feel a little alien, where before it would have felt as natural as home.

A guy bounds over to them, hooking an arm around Louis’ shoulders and exclaiming, “Louis!” like he’s just rediscovered his long-lost brother. His cheeks are ruddy like he’s already tipsy, even though it’s not yet nine.

“Liam,” Louis says, squeezing him at the waist affectionately, “I’d like to introduce you to Harry and Niall.”

Liam releases Louis to bring them both into a surprise hug, clapping them on the back with the hand that’s not holding his beer.

“Hi!” Liam greets them, looking for all the world like the happiest puppy in the pen. “I’m glad you guys could make it.”

“Thanks for inviting us,” Harry says, because he is nothing if not polite. “Happy belated birthday!”

Liam laughs and says, “Can I just say, it’s nice to finally meet the man that’s been dragging our Lou away for two-hour lunch breaks every day. Although, I guess technically we’ve met before.”

“Wait a second, I’ve been what?” Harry asks, looking at Louis, who’s pinked up. Louis goes to pinch Liam in the nipple, but it must be a regular occurrence, because he catches his wrist with astonishing precognition, even in his tipsy state.

“Mate, you don’t know the half of it,” Liam laughs, continuing to ignore Louis’ attempts to break free.

Suddenly a look of recognition dawns on Niall’s face.

“Mint chocolate macarons and almond croissants,” he says, snapping his fingers. Noting Harry’s confused expression, Niall shrugs and adds, “Liam usually comes really early when you’re dealing with deliveries and breakfast orders.”

“Sometimes I need a little something to motivate me to get through the day,” Liam explains.

“Don’t we all,” Niall says sagely.

“Plus, I just really love those macarons.”

Harry shifts his weight. “Sorry, if I’d known, I would’ve made you a mint chocolate macaron tower.”

“Nonsense,” Louis says with a frown, finally wresting his hand free. “Anything you’ve made will be amazing.”

“I’m just happy you’ve come, to be honest,” Liam says, and it’s remarkably sincere for someone they’ve just met properly for the first time. “I have to go be a good host and mingle, but make yourselves at home, yeah?”

He squeezes Louis on the shoulder, before walking over to a group of guys who all seem to be wearing leather jackets and snapbacks and holding frothy orange drinks.

“Hey,” Niall says, pointing to a blond girl in a Burberry coat with a glass of wine. “I think that’s Laura. I’m going to pop over and say hi.”

He wanders over, leaving Louis and Harry standing there, looking at each other from under their eyelashes. A smile slowly starts to break out on Louis’ face, and Harry’s soon to follow, practically like clockwork.

“Hi,” Louis says, and Harry laughs.

“Two hours, huh?”

Louis points a foot to the toe of Harry’s boot. “To be fair, one hour’s spent on the tube.”

“God,” Harry laughs. “I need a drink. Come get a drink with me, then take me inside.”

Louis waggles his eyebrows and then holds out his hand. “And when was the last time you got proper drunk, Mr Styles?”

Harry groans. “Don’t even think about it. I don’t do that anymore.”

He still reaches out though, encompassing Louis’ hand in his own, and it feels warm and small and solid. Louis shifts his hand until their fingers are entangled, knobs of bones pressed together and the cold chill of the air dispersing between their skin. Louis squeezes his hand and it feels as much of a ‘take me with you’ as it does a ‘come with me’. 

Harry squeezes back, and thinks about how much language can be conveyed in a single touch; how much response in an action.

“Well, I'm not one to resist a challenge,” Louis says softly, a twinkle in his eyes.

And Harry lets himself be pulled towards the bar, almost wishing he were more of a challenge. If he were to be perfectly honest, he’s never felt more easy for it in his life.

*

The night wears on, people trickling in and out of the house, coats piling up on the bed and glasses piling up in the sink. Harry’s got his vodka tonic in his hand, and despite Louis’ teasing, he hasn’t pushed, even as his own line of bottles extend across the sill.

It really has been a while since Harry’s even touched a drink that hasn’t then been poured into a cake mixture. It’s only his third and he already feels a giggle lodged permanently in his throat, and a heaviness in his feet and hands. Moreover, it’s like his vision, his perspicacity, has been narrowed like a string pulled taut, until the only thing he’s capable of concentrating on is right in front of him – only this strange, lovely boy; only Louis.

They’ve sequestered themselves along the window ledge in the lounge, the bass of the music angled away from them, but loud enough for them to have had to draw close, bodies aligned so their thighs and arms are pressed together, warming the skin under their clothes. 

Harry feels like he’s spent the last couple hours cataloguing the way Louis moves; the flick of his wrists as he talks, and the crossing and uncrossing of his ankles as he shifts in place, like his body is innately averse to holding still. The slow burning heat in his veins from the alcohol bleeds into the heat building in his gut from mere proximity, and he stares at the sharp curve of Louis’ jawline, and stares at the lovely arch of his eyebrows, and at the flex of his thigh against his.

Louis is talking about a teenage drunken escapade at the airport, but all Harry wants to focus on is the feel of Louis under his hands as he traces his finger up the rough thread of his jeans.

Louis grabs his hand, tightening sticky palms together, and when Harry looks up, there’s a dark flush high on his cheekbones that may not be able to be blamed solely on the alcohol.

Louis’ voice is slightly huskier when he says, “Are you a lightweight, Harry Styles? Have you got drunk on three vodka tonics?”

_Drunk on you_ , Harry wants to say, stupidly, but instead rubs his thumb along the bridge of Louis’ knuckles.

“Sorry,” he says belatedly, but Louis just gives him a strange look. He has an urge to reach out and smooth out the skin at the corner of Louis’ eyes, except he’s surprised to find that both his hands are taken.

The sound of laughter unwillingly drags Harry’s attention away, only to see that Liam has appeared before them, beaming brightly and a brown-haired girl tucked under his arm.

“Hey, I was looking for you two,” he says. “I want to cut the cake now, before we head out.”

It takes Harry a moment to register why Liam is telling him this, even as Louis tugs on his hand to haul him up.

He lets himself be lead into the kitchen, and just like that, it’s like the fuzz in his head clears a little and everything makes that little bit more sense. 

He opens the fridge and takes the cake out, setting it on the bench and carefully opening the box around it.

“Jesus, that looks fucking incredible, Harry,” Louis says, Liam voicing his agreement beside him, and Harry bites his lip at the familiar feeling of accomplishment that buzzes through him.

They place the candles around the cake and light them, then take the cake out to the patio where everyone’s gathered, Louis using the high carry of his voice to draw the guests around them.

There is a boisterous rendition of Happy Birthday, probably loud enough to incite complaints from the neighbours, followed by whooping and laughter at Liam’s failed attempt to blow out all the candles, and then again when they re-ignite.

“Should’ve known,” Liam says with a groan directed at Louis, although it’s slightly undermined by the size of his smile. “You’re a child, did you know that?”

After the candles are plucked out and Liam has made the sloppy first cut, Harry gets passed the knife. He adjusts it easily in his hand, and lip caught between his teeth, manages to draw the slice out neatly, each layer clean and held in place.

“Explain, Styles,” Louis demands, eyes widening, and Liam turns to him too in expectation. 

“Well, you said that Liam liked chocolate, so the bottom is like, a double chocolate genovese cake,” Harry says slowly. “On top of that is the spiced cranberry and buttercream layer, followed by a marbled milk and white chocolate mousse. Then there’s the white chocolate chiffon layer, followed by another layer of the cranberries and cream, and then a sherry-infused chocolate chiffon.”

Niall has magically appeared beside him with a plate ready, ever the consummate assistant, and Harry places the slice skilfully on the plate, before arranging a generous scoop of cranberries on top. He notices that Liam’s jaw is hanging open slightly.

Gesturing to the topping, Harry says, “The icing is chocolate buttercream, and I decorated it with sparkling cranberries. It’s— I hope you like it, Liam. Happy birthday.”

“Jesus,” Liam manages to choke out, and then, “Is Louis paying you enough for this?" which earns him a sharp pinch in the side.

The cake is divided and handed out to the guests, and Harry doesn’t know if the reactions to the first bites are truly genuine, but it still sends a sense of pride searing through him. Like his mum’s praise for his first cracked chocolate cake, it’s a rush of pleasure to see people enjoying his creation – to see the looks on their faces as they appreciate the flavours and the ingredients and his efforts. When he finally has his own piece that pleasure turns to content. Sweet and sour, rich and dense, light and creamy – just like he’d imagined it would be.

Then Louis moans next to him, and that in itself is another pleasure altogether.

After the last piece of cake is demolished, the atmosphere changes as people prepare to continue the party elsewhere. Niall catches Harry’s eye, nodding to where their coats are.

“Want to head back?” he says, and Harry nods, letting Niall retrieve their coats.

“What? No,” Louis says, coming in close as the last people move around them, emptying the patio. “Come out with us. Want to dance with you.”

His hand finds Harry’s again, pulling him until they’re toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest. Words seem stuck in Harry’s throat, like they’re caught in honey, sinking slow before they can even reach his tongue.

“Can’t,” he finally says, focused on the slow dip of Louis’ eyelashes. The tips of their noses brush, and Harry can feel Louis exhale softly against his lips. “Work tomorrow, remember?”

“Fuck work,” Louis says, and somehow it manages to sound like something else entirely.

They sway in spot, the light from the heat lamps shadowing the contours of Louis’ face, reminding Harry of the streams of light through the tunnel, rushing them here, rushing them to this place.

Now, right in front of him, Louis seems smaller, yet bigger than anyone Harry’s ever known, and there’s a yearning deep inside him to tell him so; to empty himself now of every feeling and sense and everything he’s ever hidden.

Louis tips his head up, just enough so that his bottom lip catches gently against Harry’s. There’s chocolate and sugar and cranberries flavouring his breath, and Harry wants to know if there’s still alcohol lingering there on his tongue, or if it’s all been swallowed away.

And then, Louis’ hands find his, and the world tilts itself beautifully, and what feels like Harry’s entire universe with it.

It is righted abruptly with a series of raps against the doorframe.

Harry turns his face towards the sky. Louis’ head thumps against his shoulder with a sigh.

“Hey, ready to go, Haz?” Niall calls out, and Harry’s not positive, but there may be an undercurrent of malignant glee in Niall’s voice.

“Yeah,” Harry says gruffly. “Coming.”

Louis steps away, giving Harry a rueful smile. “See you soon, yeah?”

“Counting on it,” Harry says, clutching at his hand a little tighter. Louis’ smile turns beatific.

Later, walking towards the train station, Harry realises that a £100 note has been slipped into his wallet. Skipping ahead, he jumps through the puddles and watches the rainwater scatter on his approach, flinging away from him and splashing onto Niall.

The look on Niall’s face is brilliant, and the night has never felt more alive.

*

It’s a Friday, and Louis and Liam are sitting on the bench taste-testing an assortment of petits fours. Louis has managed to turn up nearly every day this week to indulge his sugar cravings and exchange warm touches over the glass counter, until Harry had thought he might go mad with it. The day before, he had oh-so-casually mentioned that he was trying out some new recipes, and Louis had just as casually volunteered himself and Liam. When he’d left Niall had not so casually swatted him on the back of the head and begged him to just _ask him out already, for fuck’s sake, Haz, I will fucking murder you_.

Right now, while Louis and Liam nibble their way through biscuits and bites, Niall is supposed to be manning the counter, while trying to induct the new trainee – Jade, it was finally decided – that they’ve hired to allow Harry to spend more time in the kitchen and less time out front. It doesn’t take long, however, for him to make his way over and observe, hooking his head over Harry’s shoulder and making a cursory effort to steal a cake from the platter.

Harry fears that he’s hovering, trying to gauge each minor reaction and perhaps reading too much into each hum and crunch. Liam is carefully chewing his way through each mini slice, while Louis has taken to trying to fit whole slices in his mouth in one go, and Harry’s just not sure what that _means_.

“What was this one again?” Liam asks, holding up a chocolate square with a concerned look on his face. 

“That’s the kaffir-infused dark chocolate fudge with a banana marshmallow layer,” Harry says immediately. Niall emits a small whine next to his ear, and Harry deftly catches his hand as he makes another kidnapping attempt.

“And what about that other one, the white crunchy one?” Liam says.

“Um, that was the hazelnut white chocolate, sour apple and coconut ice.”

Liam considers for a long, painful moment before nodding. “They were my favourites. Definitely. I reckon that they had interesting textures and the flavours were just spot on.”

Next to him, Louis raises an eyebrow. “Applying for a judging position on _Great British Bake Off_ are we, Liam?”

Instead of retaliating, Liam wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders, cuddling him in. “You know I would never abandon you, Louis. Life would be meaningless without you by my side.”

“Yeah, okay, calm down,” Louis says, pushing him off, Liam grinning.

Turning to Harry, Louis says, “I liked the meringue thing—”

“The cranberry meringue filo pies,” Harry supplies. It had been his favourite, and he feels unreasonably happy that Louis likes it, too. They had felt elegantly simple but full of flavour.

“Yeah, that one,” Louis says, smiling. “And the dark chocolate one. Could’ve easily had a whole plate of those to meself.”

Niall whines again, louder this time, wriggling against Harry’s back like a demanding child until he sighs and lets him go.

“Shouldn’t you be watching Jade?” Harry asks, as Niall quickly tucks into the leftover petits fours, but Niall just shrugs and motions behind them, where Jade appears to be competently taking orders and amiably chatting away to customers.

Turning back, Harry says, “Once she’s learnt everything, you’re fired,” and Niall sticks a cakey tongue out at him.

“Um,” Liam says, and when Harry looks at him, he appears to be raising his hand a little. “I’ve just noticed, but you tend to use the same kind of fruits a lot. Not that I don’t like it,” he adds quickly. “Just that I was wondering if you’d over-ordered or something?”

Harry almost laughs, but Liam’s eyebrows are furrowed together, and he seems genuinely confused.

“It’s not that,” Harry begins, moving to tuck his hands inside his apron pocket. “It’s just really important for me to try and source my ingredients locally and to eat seasonally.”

“God, here we go,” Niall says, muffled around a mouthful of biscuit.

Harry ignores him and continues. “When we first started, I decided that being sustainable was, like, a big part of my business plan, as well as supporting the local economy. Plus, the food is much fresher this way.”

Louis is blinking up at him with wide eyes, nodding and listening earnestly with a mouthful of meringue he’s managed to nick out of Niall’s grasp. There’s an unintentional pause before he continues.

“So, um,” Harry says, “at the moment we’ve got fruit like, apples, pears and cranberries, and things like chestnuts and hazelnuts, and rosemary and sage. There’re meats like venison and turkey too, although obviously we don’t really sell stuff like that. But seasonal foods just tend to compliment each other better, don’t you think?”

“My mum always makes turkey at Christmas with cranberry and walnut stuffing,” Liam volunteers.

Niall groans, apparently finished licking the platter clean. “Fuck, don’t talk to me about turkey. You should see the one Harry makes for our early Christmas do every year. It’s fucking brilliant.”

“Yeah?” Louis says. “I’m not really a fan of turkey, but I think I’d eat pretty much anything that young Harold has to offer.”

Harry clears his throat, twisting his fingers together inside the pocket, and looking Louis directly in the eyes. “You can come, if you like. The both of you. We usually have it a few days before Christmas. Just a small gathering, nothing posh or anything.”

Niall snorts. “Nothing posh? You made like three plates of bloody hors d'oeuvres last year. You made your own duck neck sausage terrine, for God’s sake. _Nothing posh_. Christ.”

Louis grins up at him, and it’s sweet and a little eager, and it etches itself into Harry's cheeks, and Harry doesn’t know how much deeper he can get.

“We’d love to come, right Liam?” Louis says, pinching Liam in the arm without even having to break eye contact.

“You don’t have to pinch me, of course I want to come!” Liam says, rubbing his arm.

Grabbing the platter and indicating towards the counter, Niall says, “I’m going to take this as my cue to get back to Jade.”

“How many people have you got working here?” Liam asks. “All I ever see are you and Niall.”

Harry sets himself down at the table, across from Louis, even though he knows he should probably get back to work, too.

“That’s because it is just me and Niall,” Harry says. “And now hopefully Jade, if Niall doesn’t scare her away.”

Louis nudges his foot under the table, in commiseration or otherwise.

“It’s just been the two of you?” Liam says, surprised. “That’s got to be a lot of work.”

“There was another, our friend Zayn, but he’s taking some down time at the moment,” Harry says with a shrug. “It’s been okay, like, I’m not complaining, but it’s just in the past couple of months that business has really picked up a bit. We thought about getting a business manager or something, but in the end, we want to be in control as much as possible. Plus, we’ve made it this far.”

“Well, Louis and I, we’re in the same boat as you guys, then,” Liam says, smiling.

“Yeah?” Harry says, raising his eyebrows at Louis, who just copies the movement. “How so?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Liam says, confused, looking between Louis and Harry, before shouldering Louis. “You’ve been down here nearly every day for weeks. What on earth have you even been talking about?”

“There are many ways of getting to know another person, Liam,” Louis says cryptically, winking at Harry.

Harry catches Louis’ foot under the table. “Yeah,” he says. “How do you know that we haven’t just spent our time looking into each others’ eyes for hours on end?”

“Or holding hands and memorising the lines on our palms?” Louis says. He slowly slides his toes up the back of Harry’s calves.

“Or recounting our life stories from birth,” Harry says, rubbing their ankles together. “We could only be at age ten, Liam, our lives are pretty complex.”

“Or you could’ve just been playing footsies really obviously under the table, I get it,” Liam says, interrupting before Louis can continue.

Louis just shrugs, but Harry’s sure he’s just kicked Liam with his free foot. He’s still got his eyes on Harry, though, and that feels much more important.

“Right,” Harry says after a lengthy pause, and he watches as Louis’ face is overtaken with warmth.

Liam gets up then, obviously realising his place, and says, “Yeah, right. Thanks so much for the taste-test invite, Harry, it was incredible. Lou, I’m going to get some macarons to go, and then we’ll head off, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis says absently, waving him off with a flick of his wrist. Liam rolls his eyes, albeit fondly, then joins Niall at the counter.

“So,” Louis says, when Liam’s gone.

“So,” Harry agrees, before furrowing his brow. “Wait, so what was Liam talking about?”

“Oh,” Louis says, then laughs. “It’s just that Li and I have our own business, too. A music production company, actually. This year has been kind of massive for us. So, like, we’re kind of the same.” He shrugs again, and it’s so uncharacteristically modest, that Harry immediately knows that ‘massive’ probably doesn’t even begin to cover it. Not with a flat like that, at least.

“That’s really great, Lou,” Harry says, tapping his foot against Louis’ ankle. “Really, really great.”

Louis ducks his head with a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, it’s– it’s kind of incredible? Liam’s always been so sure, but I– I don’t know. It’s just turned out better than I ever thought possible, really.” 

He looks up from under his fringe, eyelashes sweeping. “I think I mentioned, but it’s been an unexpectedly fantastic year. In more ways than one.”

He winds both of his feet around Harry’s, and the words sink in, resonating, chocolate on his tongue. The past year has been a bit of a whirlwind – sometimes, a knock you down so hard you can’t even think about getting up type of whirlwind – and sometimes, Harry feels like time is approaching so fast that he can only ever think about what he’s going to do next, never being able to sit back and reflect. 

Yet. There’s a lot of truth there. There are many things Louis says that feel like truth, even when they’re twisted around teasing and jests.

“I think,” Harry says slowly, “that you should come over to mine tomorrow. Like, after business hours.”

“Yeah?” Louis says, quirk at the corner of his mouth. “You propositioning me, Styles? Now that you know I’m moving up in the world?”

“I’m going to cook you dinner,” Harry says.

Louis ducks his chin again, but Harry catches the crinkled eyes and the bunching at his cheeks.

“You know I’d never turn down a free meal,” Louis says. “So, I guess it’s a date.”

And when he raises his eyes to meet Harry’s, he thinks, yeah. It really is making out to be a fantastic year.

*

It’s already dark by the time Harry finishes closing up the bakery the next day. He closes the blinds on the clouded near-winter sky, and shuts away the wind and the cold, and reminds himself that each small action brings him closer to when he’ll see Louis again.

Niall has already headed home, but not before trying to stuff a pile of condoms into Harry’s back pocket, saying sternly, “Haz, I know it’s been a while, so remember; if it’s not on, it’s not on,” and then proceeding to chuckle and run for the door while Harry had pegged them at his back.

He’d texted soon after, a simple _good luck ya big eejit x_.

However, when Harry finally heads upstairs, his heart’s beating slightly erratically and there’s a queasiness moving up through his belly like a riptide. It really has been a while. A while since anything but his own hand has touched his dick, certainly, but much longer since he’s even attempted a relationship. 

Back then he’d never even think twice at giving himself over to people, wholly and completely. He’d blink and there would be his heart already pinned and bleeding through his sleeve, exposed and ready for the taking. 

Putting it back in each time, it had never fit quite as right as it had before.

Afterwards, he used to try to pick it apart; turn it over and over in his head until it read like a self-help book reconstructed and still making no sense. He’s learnt a lot since then. Like how to let people in just the right amount without having to give yourself away. 

What’s worse though – the worse thing he’s learnt, when he allows himself to think about it – is that he’s just always been _so fucking lonely_. With or without someone, even when laughing over wine glasses with stained lips, or waking up wrapped around a warm body, or getting a message checking when he’ll come home, _I love you xxx_. Even when he knows he’s not meant to be.

But Louis – 

_Louis_.

They’re going to have roast chicken tonight, even thought it’s a Saturday. Harry takes a deep breath and places the seasoned chicken in the oven. He sets the timer carefully to its weight. He checks the temperature to make sure that it’s heating correctly. He doesn’t want to fuck it up.

*

Harry is just taking the chicken out of the oven and replacing it with a cheese and garlic loaf, when Louis pranks him. He quickly takes off his apron, checking his hair in the microwave, before jogging downstairs to let him in.

The sky is dark, threatening to crack open, and on the doorstep Louis has his arms wrapped tightly around himself and a fine film of rain on his hair, making him shine under the streetlights. He looks compact and slightly ethereal, and Harry’s heart clenches almost painfully in his chest.

“Hey, you,” Harry says, stepping aside and letting Louis come in.

“Hey,” Louis says, before quickly springing up on his toes and kissing Harry’s cheek, his small hand gripping onto Harry’s shoulder. His lips are cold and a little dry, and Harry’s arm automatically curls around his waist, wanting to keep him close.

“Hey,” Harry says again, voice low, when Louis flattens his feet, but remains in Harry’s hold.

Louis laughs and it turns into a groan, his head tilting towards the ceiling.

“Fuck, just take me upstairs, before I do something I shouldn’t.”

“There’s nothing you shouldn’t do,” Harry says, but he lets him go, leading him up the stairs.

The apartment smells distinctly like roast chicken and lemon and sage, and Harry hears Louis swear softly behind him when he leads him into his small studio flat.

Putting his apron back on, Harry says, “Um, so I thought I’d make something kind of warm and homey, and like, what’s more homey than roast chicken?”

Louis looks at the chicken on the bench in front of them, its crisp brown skin glistening, and then up to Harry, saying, “I have honestly never been more turned on in my life. And I still have dreams about your muffin sometimes.”

Harry lets out a bark of laughter, clutching at his mouth like that could hold it in. 

“You are, by far, the most ridiculous person that I have ever met,” Harry says. “And I know _Niall_.”

Louis shrugs and says, “Like you don’t know that a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Or, you know, possibly the way to other organs, too.”

Harry shakes his head, grinning. “Okay, good. Alright. So, would you like a drink?” he says, hands waving around the kitchen in a bad attempt to change the subject in case his body decides to spontaneously combust.

“Wine me and dine me, Styles,” Louis says, perching himself on one of the breakfast stools, and rapping his knuckles against the wood.

Although he’s not a wine aficionado by any means, Harry knows that a well-cooked roast chicken pairs best with white wines like chardonnay, and he takes the bottle from the fridge, popping the cork and pouring Louis, and then himself, a generous glass.

“It’s a chablis, so it’s quite crisp, a bit apple-y,” Harry says, passing the glass over, before smiling a bit sheepishly. “Or, at least that’s what Cynthia at the bottle shop told me.”

Louis sits up a bit straighter and takes the proffered glass, holding it up to the light and then swirling it on the table with his fingers at the base. He takes a small quick sip, and then another, swishing it around his mouth and then swallowing. 

Nodding with satisfaction, Louis looks at Harry, just as he’s beginning to feel a bit anxious, and says, “I don’t actually have any idea what I’m doing, but Liam took a tour through France a couple years ago, and apparently that’s how you’re supposed to drink wine. Tastes pretty decent, though, by my estimate.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Harry says with a laugh. He takes a sip of his own and nods. It is pretty nice.

Louis leans forward on the bench, elbows up and chin resting in his palms. “So tell me about what else you’ve made,” he says, looking up attentively and all too innocently.

“Well,” Harry says, grinning, “we’ve got a lemon and sage roast chicken with stuffing and gravy. To go with that I’ve made a salad, nothing too fancy, but still keeping with the season. It’s a mix of roasted parsnip, artichokes, walnuts, and some pancetta, which is kind of like Italian bacon but made from pork belly, if you haven’t heard of it. I’ve kind of noticed that you prefer things with a bit of saltiness to it, more fatty than sweet, unless it’s got a bit of a tang, so the dressing is mostly lemony and herby, with a bit of roasted garlic in there, and— and you couldn’t care less,” Harry finishes, noticing that Louis is merely blinking at him, a blank expression on his face.

“No! What? _No_ ,” Louis says, shaking his head. “What?”

“You’ve been here all of five minutes and you’re bored, because I’m prattling on about salad,” Harry says dryly.

“Absolute nonsense, Harold,” Louis says, smile at the edge of his lips. “In fact, salad has never sounded more thrilling; you’re a regular raconteur.”

“ _Raconteur_ ,” Harry laughs. “Fuck off.”

“No, seriously,” Louis says, and Harry can tell he’s struggling not to laugh, too. “You should put that on your business card. _Harry Styles: Artisan Baker and Raconteur_.”

“And pâtissier,” Harry can’t help but add, and Louis’ grin finally breaks through.

“And pâtissier,” he concurs. “That’s a bakery triple-threat right there.”

Harry laughs again, and he can’t even remember what he might have been nervous about.

“Hey,” Louis says, reaching out to touch Harry’s wrist, and smiling so sweetly and sincerely that Harry feels that pinching ache once again. “Really, it sounds amazing. And I’m kind of starving here, so if you could hurry it along a bit, that wouldn’t be out of order.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and bends down to collect the plates and cutlery, but not before giving Louis’ hand a gentle squeeze in return.

“If you set the table, I can finish up here?” Harry says, and Louis jumps down from his seat with a “Yes, Chef!” that would probably sound more obnoxious to the less smitten.

Harry takes the now warm and crusty loaf out of the oven and finishes up plating the chicken and thickening the gravy, while Louis totters around the drop-leaf IKEA table that Harry usually uses to throw his mail on. It’s quiet for a while, besides Louis humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath, and almost domestic, and it pulls at him, how much he would give to do this again and again – to be able to have this every day.

Taking a deep breath, Harry carefully places the food on the table, before retrieving the wine and their glasses. Louis sits as patiently as he possibly can, only wriggling a little, while Harry carves the chicken and serves up the salad, letting Louis tear off a chunk of the cheese and garlic loaf. To Louis’ amusement, he lights the candles he’s lined up along the bench and table – buttered apple spice – before dimming the lights. When at last he sits down, Louis holds up his glass of wine, raising his eyebrows for Harry to do the same.

“And to what shall we toast?” Harry says, and Louis ponders for a moment, squinting into the distance. The candlelight flickers across his face, shadowing along his jawline, and he’s so gorgeous Harry can barely breathe.

“To a fantastic meal,” Louis says grandly, looking back at Harry. “And may it be the first of many more to come.”

Harry bites his lip at the cliché, before smiling. “You’re a hopeless romantic, aren’t you, Louis Tomlinson?”

“Guilty,” Louis says with a small shrug, but he looks a little smug about it. He tips his wine glass forward and it meets Harry’s with a clink. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Harry murmurs. 

The wine sits sharp and fruity on his tongue, and the spreading heat it leaves under his skin feels like a promise.

*

After eating more chicken than Harry had thought possible, they settle themselves on the couch, and with their bellies warm with alcohol, a movie playing low in the background, and the candles still burning, the room seems mellow and cosy. Outside the slow, steady drizzle has turned into a bucketing shower, but it feels so far removed, so safely out of reach.

Louis is groaning in exaggeration beside him, sticking out his stomach so it makes a soft bump, and rubbing it tenderly under his shirt. It’s probably not intended to look so seductive, but Harry’s dick has yet to be informed.

“I haven’t been this full since Liam dared me to eat every burger on the menu at McDonald’s in one go,” Louis says, and Harry’s not sure what it means that he’s more impressed than disgusted.

“No dessert then, I take it,” Harry says slyly, and Louis snaps his head towards him in horror.

“Oh God,” he says. “I want it so badly, but I’m not sure I can. I don’t think I’ve ever turned down dessert before. Haz, I am seriously torn right now.”

His face looks so hilariously panicked that Harry reaches across to stop the movement of his hand on his tummy, because he doesn’t think his heart can take so much at one time. Louis immediately turns his hand to hold Harry’s, resting it on his bump.

“Would it help if I told you what I made?” Harry asks, linking their fingers and shuffling closer.

“Maybe?” Louis says. “It’ll probably just make me want to eat it more. Okay. Yes. No. Yes.”

Harry smothers a laugh. “Is that a yes?”

Louis’ face contorts for a moment before he exhales deeply and nods. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Harry says, shuffling forward until his knee is bumping Louis’ thigh. “So you know how you liked the meringue pie yesterday?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Louis says warily.

“Well,” Harry says, perhaps too cheerfully, “I made something a little similar. It’s a pomegranate meringue tart, with chilli chocolate ganache.”

Louis groans again, throwing his head back dramatically. “ _Why do you choose to torture me?_ ”

He looks over the back of the couch at Harry, narrowing his eyes. “You do realise, that if this becomes a regular thing, you’re going to have to say goodbye to my trim waistline.”

Harry runs a thumb along the curve of Louis’ stomach, watching it sink under the trail. “If this becomes a regular thing, I really don’t think that’s going to matter a lot,” Harry says.

“It might matter to me,” Louis grumps, but his face settles into something like consideration.

On the telly Julia Roberts is being snubbed by the patronising staff at Boulmiche, and Louis suddenly says, “Ooh, this is me mum’s favourite part,” and relaxes into the couch once more. 

The hand that’s holding Harry’s lets go to pull him closer until Harry’s nestled under his arm, sprawled next to him, his head against Louis’ shoulder. It feels like such a teenage move; feels like any second his mum’s going to walk in and give Harry that knowing look of hers. 

Harry hides his smile in the sharp dip of Louis’ collarbone, the cotton of his baseball tee soft against his skin, and breathes in the smell of mandarin and peach and pepper and lilac, and thinks about making Louis his muse when he hasn’t even yet had a taste of him.

Louis’ attention is on the screen, his body jumping every time he laughs, loud and uninhibited. All Harry can see though is the pulse jumping in his neck, and the slow bob of his Adam’s apple each time he swallows. There’s a persistent golden glow underneath his skin, and a smattering of stubble growing through, and under the dim candlelight and the glimmering early 90s movie palette, he’s like burnished copper, like salted caramel. Like he would melt like sugar on Harry’s tongue.

Harry leans forward, the tip of his nose grazing the underside of Louis’ chin, and it draws a breath from him in a heavy exhale. And when Louis looks down at him, all consideration has been replaced with dark eyes and a hint of mischief in the corner of his mouth that Harry can barely pull his gaze from.

His hand reaches out and pushes a loose strand of Harry’s hair behind his ear, twirling the curling end around his finger, and he’s so close, so close and yet not nearly close enough.

Louis’ hand slides around the back of his neck, threading fingers through his hair, and the brush of his nails against Harry’s scalp, the small pinch of pain where they tangle, has him finally closing the gap between them, surging forward and pressing his lips against Louis’.

Louis reacts like he’s two steps ahead, mouth opening easily under his, letting Harry slot their lips together with a faint sigh of relief. Louis parts his mouth and Harry captures his bottom lip, tugging gently before licking in, tongue tracing the inside of his mouth. When he pulls back, it’s only to suck in Louis’ bottom lip once again, biting at the slick, reddening flesh, before moving their mouths together once more, so much sweeter than he’d thought.

Louis’ hand tightens between the locks of his hair, almost too tight, and Harry’s fingers flatten against Louis’ shirt, pushing him down until his head hits the seat of the couch with a soft thump, and Harry can feel his heart jack-rabbiting beneath his palm.

“Fuck,” Louis breathes out, his hand shakily sliding down Harry’s neck and under the collar of his shirt, then back up again, fingers pressing into skin.

He’s so lovely with a flush along his cheekbones and his chest moving in a rapid little beat, and he looks simultaneously in awe and like he’s about to devour Harry whole. And Harry is powerless to it; can’t help but do anything but kiss him again, open-mouthed and wet, moving to slot their legs together along the length of the couch until there’s barely any air between them. Louis’ thighs squeeze together around him before falling open, his hips pressing up into the thick of Harry’s leg.

Harry’s hands are moving on their own accord, travelling up and down the steep curve of Louis’ waist, until his shirt is bunched around his ribs and Louis is releasing small sighs along the crease of Harry’s tongue with each glide of Harry’s fingers against his heated skin.

The kisses gradually turn from frantic to deep and slow, Harry petting along Louis’ sides, and repeatedly drawing his tongue into his mouth until the taste of him is imprinted in his memory, salty and sweet, hot and yielding. Their hips roll fluidly against each other, but it’s measured, unhurried – feels more like they’re trying to fulfil an ache for proximity than reach a desperately sought finale.

Louis’ other hand moves down to find Harry’s once more, and when they link together, he lets out a warm breath like found relief, anchored to Harry like a ship to a harbour. Harry leans back and kisses his upper lip, his swollen bottom lip, the sweet little corner of his mouth, and then up the sides of his cheek until Louis’ deep breaths turn into breathy giggles. His hand finally releases from its grip on Harry’s neck, his thumb tracing along his eyebrow and the round of his face, a smile playing on his lips.

When Harry brings himself to stop, he presses their foreheads together, wondering at how the exhilaration in his body has turned to comforting warmth. La Traviata plays quietly in the background, and Richard Gere ascends the fire escape, and Harry’s and Louis’ bodies are fitted together – tangled hands and slotted knees – and it feels like everything suddenly. Everything right here and burying itself in his bones, and a beautiful boy beneath him, touching him like he may never stop.

There are words threatening to spill between his lips, but he holds them pause. Instead, he blinks down at Louis, slightly cross-eyed; watches him blink back, red lips parted in a grin.

“Hey,” Louis says, voice rough.

“Hey,” Harry says, nudging their noses together.

“So, it’s getting kind of late,” Louis begins to say, but Harry shakes his head, interrupting him.

“No. Stay. Please,” he says.

“Well, since you’ve asked so nicely, I suppose I’ll have to,” Louis says, and it comes out so quickly and practised, it’s like that was all that he had been waiting for.

Harry gets off the couch, reaching down to haul Louis up, and his shirt’s all rucked up and his hair’s mussed, and Harry doesn’t even think twice before drawing him back in at the waist until his spine arches, and kissing him again, moving their lips together soft and slow.

“ _God_ ,” Louis says when they break apart. “I can’t believe that was just a kiss. Feels like I’ve run a marathon or something. And won. And my name’s been put in the paper and everything,” and Harry hides his smile in his shoulder, biting lightly there. “You’re going to ruin me, Styles.”

“Believe me, it’ll be a mutual ruination,” Harry says.

“All I’ve ever wanted,” Louis says.

“You know what I really don’t want to get ruined, though?” Harry says, taking Louis’ hand and pulling him back towards the kitchen.

Louis hops up on the breakfast stool. “I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark and say dessert.”

“You’re a mind reader, Tomlinson,” Harry says.

The cupboard is pulled open and Harry tskes out a pink Tupperware container from the far back, before collecting a couple forks from the drawer. He sits himself next to Louis, opening the Tupperware and setting out the desserts on the lid, handing Louis a fork.

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Fancy.”

Harry nudges him with his knee, and picks up his own fork, clinking it against Louis’ and making him screw his face up in laughter.

Over the past couple of weeks, watching Louis eat has become one of Harry’s favourite pastimes. He’s so expressive, licking and moaning and shoving enough food into his mouth to make his cheeks bulge, like he’s a hamster planning on storing it for second afters. Even though Liam’s told him that Louis is a pretty fussy eater, Harry hasn’t seen him turn down anything yet, tucking into everything that Harry presents to him with equal relish, whether it be pie, pudding or pastry.

Even now, Louis drags the fork from his mouth, making sure to lick it clean from every smear of the decadent chocolate ganache, and then from his lips with a dart of pink tongue. When he finishes, he places the fork down and turns to Harry with a satisfied look.

“Absolutely incredible. I honestly don’t know how you do it, Styles.”

“Years of training,” Harry suggests. “Quality ingredients. Time-tested recipes.”

Louis shakes his head, jumping down from the stool to stand between Harry’s knees, and resting his warm hands on his thighs. “Nah, I reckon you’ve got something special. Something nobody else has.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, putting his own fork down and pressing his thighs together to pull Louis closer. “I have?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, lips twitching. “All packed into that little Irish miracle called Niall.”

Harry groans. “Shove off,” he says, trying to push away a cackling Louis, but he just ends up losing his balance and falling off the stool.

“Careful,” Louis says, steadying him by the elbow, but there’s a tremor of laughter still running through his voice. It abruptly disappears when Harry rights himself, standing tall and nudging Louis so that his back is lined up against the bench.

"Take it back," Harry says, and Louis shakes his head defiantly. 

“Make me,” Louis says. He's biting his lip, anticipating what Harry will do next, and it's like Harry's heart is caught between his teeth instead, canine's digging in deliciously.

He doesn't mean to, but Harry says, “You’re kind of small, you know?” and Louis gives him an affronted look.

“Steady on, I’ll have you know that I’m five foot nine, thank you very much,” Louis says, trying to casually push up on his toes. He has lovely calves.

Harry ignores him, crowding him in. “I like it though.”

Louis visibly swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “I like a lot of things about you,” and it feels like the closest thing to a confession.

Louis looks up at him under his eyelashes, and the tugging he’s felt in his chest gets stronger, his heart tethered to a wayward kite leading it somewhere unknown and undiscovered. And Harry there, being pulled behind readily on clumsy feet.

He leans down, presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek, rough stubble and a hint of chilli and the memory of before. Louis’ fingers dig a little into his sides.

“Come on, then,” Harry says, taking his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

They clean up, Louis only grumbling somewhat as he stacks the dishes, and Harry pretending he doesn’t see him steal bits of cold chicken skin before it’s popped in the fridge. They brush their teeth side by side, nudging each other with their hips over the sink, before clambering into Harry’s bed in t-shirts and boxers, pulling the covers up to their chins so they’re cocooned in its warmth. Lying side-by-side, naked arms brushing against each other, the angles of their hips skimming bone.

Over Harry’s bed there’s a skylight, reflecting pale, fractured moonlight through a thousand drops of rain. The lights inside the flat are turned off, but there’s still the dim glow of the candles as they reach the end of their wicks, flickering faintly.

“You like your skylights, don’t you?” Louis says, looking up at the night sky above them.

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. “I like to know what the weather’s like.”

Rolling over onto his side, Harry buries his nose into the warm skin of Louis’ shoulder. His eyes are starting to feel the weight of the day, drooping with the hours accumulated since dawn. 

When Louis speaks again his voice is soft, accent lilting, and it seeks to blend into the shadows around them, gliding in and out of Harry’s half sleep.

“I don’t want to rush things or push you. I don’t want to fuck things up,” Louis admits. “I really fucking like you.”

All Harry can do is drape his arm over Louis’ stomach, feeling it dip under his touch, and hold on tightly. He presses a kiss into Louis’ sleeve, warmth spreading under his cold lips.

When the silence between them has faded into the darkness, he says, words cracking with exhaustion, “You’re not going to fuck things up. You’re not going to break me or anything.”

“I don’t think you’re breakable,” Louis says. 

He turns his head on the pillow to face him, and Harry looks up, opens his eyes. They meet Louis’, and they’re still radiant, still clearer than any Harry’s ever seen – transplanted galaxies spinning inside the centre of a sun.

“You’re not breakable or anything,” Louis says again, just as quiet. “But you’re careful. Makes me want to be more careful, too.”

He reaches out, pushing aside the curls on Harry’s cheek, and Harry catches his wrist before he can pull away, turning over and pulling Louis’ arm around him until his chest lines up to the curve of Harry’s back. Louis shifts against him, exhaling and expelling the air between them, and there’s his heart, beating into Harry’s spine – steady, safe – just like Harry always thought it would be.

Harry wraps his fingers around Louis’, notching them together, bones into sockets into skin, until they’re like a puzzle completed.

“G’night,” Harry mumbles, barely a whisper, and the last thing he senses before he falls asleep is Louis’ lips at the back of his neck, moving a reply into warm, aching skin.

When they fall asleep that night, the sky is frazzled with thunder, but he thinks that the lighting might be caught in his veins.

*

In the morning, although not long past dawn, Harry wakes later than he can remember in a long while. The sun, freed from the midnight storm, is creeping up along the frame of the skylight, making the edges burn orange gold, and lighting the wrinkled folds of the blanket. Louis’ arms have loosened around him, and when Harry turns in their hold, he’s greeted with a slackened face free of mirth or sarcasm or bite. Just still. Just quiet.

He slowly untangles himself and Louis grunts in protestation. A whine of “Nng, dun’ go” escapes his lips and hands reach out, clutching randomly, and Harry kisses his forehead soothingly, says, “I’ll be back soon,” before getting out of bed.

He washes up quickly in the bathroom, feet jogging lightly on the freezing tiles, and when he heads back out, Louis seems to be asleep again, nestled into the blankets and pillows.

Harry sends Niall a hasty text then plods downstairs, joints still a bit stiff with sleep, and quickly rifles through a drawer for a piece of paper and a pen, scrawling, “We are closed today. Sorry for the inconvenience. Normal opening hours will commence tomorrow.” He feels only slightly guilty when he tapes it to the door, sending a silent apology to his Sunday regulars.

By the time he’s headed back upstairs, Louis is coming out of the bathroom, still sleep-ruffled and soft. His hair looks fluffy and gold-tipped in the warm light of the room, and he has a hand curled in a fist, rubbing at his eyes. He’s still wearing just his black boxer briefs and rumpled t-shirt from the night before, and it just feels right. Like he belongs right here in Harry’s flat, now and always. There’s an urge to head back downstairs and change the sign so it reads, “closed until forever,” and just keep Louis here, like this, caught in the faint glow of the morning.

“Morning, you,” Louis says when he sees Harry, and he smiles with squinted eyes, and it’s like Harry’s own personal piece of the sun.

“Morning,” Harry murmurs, moving towards Louis to pull him forward. “It’s too cold to be out of bed.”

“Is that so?” Louis says, and he lets Harry walk them back towards the bed, until the backs of Harry’s knees hit the mattress.

He sits down with a short puff of breath, and Louis climbs into his lap, easy as anything, and winds his arms around Harry’s neck.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Louis says quietly.

The thick of his thighs frame Harry’s, and Harry runs his hands up them, brushing against the fine hair, skimming the hem of his boxers. His skin is firm and soft, muscles moving under his touch, tensing beautifully.

Louis tugs on the hair at the back of Harry’s neck, dragging his attention back to Louis’ face, pillow creases on his cheeks and a smear of toothpaste powdered at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are still half closed, bags deeply lined under them, but he’s looking at Harry unfalteringly, with slow blinks that Harry can’t help but mimic. It’s like they can communicate just like this, through whispers of breath and dipping eyelids and fingers stroking gently under hems and collars.

“So. You going to kiss me or what?” Louis says, almost teasing, and Harry swallows, shifting his focus to the seam of Louis’ lips – that little toothpaste smudge.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough from the morning and something else completely. “Yeah, I’m going to kiss you.”

It’s different to last night. Louis’ lips still slot easily between his own, but they’re more demanding than sweet and yielding. The both know where this is leading – where it’s been slowly edging ever since Louis first stepped into the bakery, misted with rain.

Harry’s hands make their way up Louis’ shirt, thumbs moving across the pouch of his tummy before his fingers curl into half moons at his waist, fitting into the steep curve. Louis shivers beneath his touch, gripping tightly at Harry’s shoulders and urging him forward, tongue flicking deeper, insistent. His stubble is a little rougher and it rubs against Harry’s own smooth cheeks and lips as they kiss, turning the skin sensitive as they move, burning a trail, marking where he’s been. It’s wet and messy, and Harry’s lips close, part again, drawing him in and licking him clean, searching for something that might just be enough.

Harry’s cock thickens between them, pushing at the fabric of his boxers, and he can’t help the grateful moan he releases when Louis shuffles forward, hips aligning.

“Fuck,” Louis groans against Harry’s mouth as their dicks shift together, and he grabs at Harry’s clenched hands, sliding them down his waist until the rest at the round of his bum. He says, voice husky, “Like this, yeah?” and Harry can only nod all too willingly, pressing his fingers into the flesh and rocking them together. 

It’s so agonisingly good, heat building within him with each tempered roll of their hips and the hiss of exhaling breath when they come together just right. 

Louis’ hands make their way back into Harry’s hair, petting gently. He says, “There we go. Much better,” and even though Harry knows on some level that he’s teasing, he can’t help the way his stomach pulls tight; can’t help the tension gathering under his skin, the desperate need to please and be pleased.

It culminates in Harry pulling Louis forward suddenly, earning a little surprised huff as their chest collide, and then a giggle when their noses bump, Louis going cross-eyed at their proximity.

“Sorry, can we—” Harry begins to say, just as Louis starts, “Do you want—” and they both look at each other before giggling.

“How about we,” Louis says, and without warning he places his hands flat against Harry’s chest, pushing him down rough onto the bed. This time it’s Harry’s turn for his stomach to drop. His arms fly out, gripping the bedclothes with a yelp.

Louis bursts out laughing, tummy trembling and hands coming up to cover his mouth.

“I’m so sorry! That seemed a lot sexier in my head,” he gasps out, before releasing a fresh peal of laughter. “Oh my God, you should see your face.”

There’s a pout on his lips as Harry glares up at Louis, not happy at being laughed at while Louis is still sitting on his hard cock, tremors of laughter running straight through his body.

“Can we just get on with it?” Harry says grumpily, and he knows his lip is jutting out.

Calming himself, Louis just looks down at him fondly, and Harry notices that the toothpaste has now been completely kissed from Louis’ mouth. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Let me just—”

He reaches down to the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in a single fluid motion, and this is the kind of surprise that Harry can get on board with. All of Harry’s indignation disappears with one heavy swallow.

Louis’ chest is slightly flushed, so soft in its definition, and Harry can’t help his eyes trailing over the dusting of dark hair, the black lettering he finds there.

“Hey,” Louis says, and when their gazes meet, Harry sees the sparkle of anticipation there, dark edging out the blue. “Don’t leave a man hanging, Haz.”

Harry laughs and with clumsy hands, a little desperate with need, he fumbles with his own shirt. But it seems the more he tries the more tangled it becomes, until it’s half twisted around his neck, his elbow stuck in the collar and frustration stuck in his throat like a strangled scream. Louis leans forward, not so gently untangling him, and when Harry can see again, he’s got his lips pressed together in a poor attempt at quelling his smile.

“Stop laughing at me,” Harry whines, digging his fingers into Louis’ ribs, and Louis just crumples, folding up against Harry’s chest and giggling helplessly, crying out, “I’m not! I swear I’m not!”

“This is not exactly how I thought this would go,” Harry says dolefully, and still painfully aware of how hard he still is. The trouble is, despite the humiliation, there’s still a beautiful, wriggling, ticklish boy on top of him, and flagging his erection is not.

It seems he’s not the only one aware of this fact, because Louis props himself up on his elbows to grin at him, all sharp teeth and far from innocence.

“Really?” he says a tad too cheerfully. “Did you expect a little more of this?” And he grinds his arse back on Harry like the minx Harry’s always secretly suspected him to be.

Harry moans, the sudden friction almost too much on his poor, neglected cock, and Louis stares down at him with twinkling blue-ringed eyes.

“Or maybe a little more like this?” he says, and starts moving down Harry’s chest, as if he hadn’t just been laughing at him seconds before, pressing closed-mouthed kisses and barely-there nips along his heated skin. And Harry _knows_ he’s being teased, _knows_ he’s being made fun of, but that doesn’t stop the whimpers that fall from his lips when Louis’ stubbled cheek brushes over the hard nub of his nipple, and his delicate fingers sneak their way into the elastic of his boxers.

Along the way it seems like Louis forgets his original goal, and his movements turn to purposeful bites and wet, lingering kisses, working a path down Harry’s chest, heat alighting with each bruising brush of his lips. Harry’s still got one hand fisted in the sheets, the other straying to Louis’ back, shakily smoothing up the knobs of his spine and the soft hair at the back of his neck. He tries to hold a steady focus on the skylight above him, on the dark edges of quick-moving clouds across the frame, because the sight of Louis moving down his body is enough to make his vision swim dangerously, blurring with need.

Then Louis’ chin hits the curve of his straining cock through his boxers, and it’s like the air has been punched out of him, his stomach dipping sharply at the touch.

“Yeah?” Louis says softly, voice rasping, and when Harry finally looks down he sees that he’s shuffled back on to the floor between Harry’s legs, resting his cheek on Harry’s thigh, eyebrows raised in a question. His hair is still mussed from sleep and his lips are swollen red, and it’s so unfair, so completely and utterly unfair how sweet he’s still capable of looking with the back of his knuckles running up and down the hard line of Harry’s clothed clock. Harry’s never come untouched before, but he supposes there’s a time and a place for everything.

“Yeah,” he chokes out after a beat, and Louis smiles, nips at the sensitive meat of his thighs until Harry smiles back.

Louis’ fingers hook into Harry’s waistband, and he raises his hips as they’re tugged down his legs, cock practically slapping against his stomach with its release. He hears Louis swear quietly, fingers wrapping gently around his length, and Harry could cry from how close he is; how awful and tortuous and incredible that tiny bit of friction is.

There’s a cough, and Louis says, looking a bit pink, “It’s, uh. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this.”

“Really?” Harry croaks out. “That’s a shame. I was ready to letter grade you and everything. Give you an assessment with bullet points for improvement. Scaling. Bell curves—”

Louis interrupts his rambling with a flick to his cock, and it really shouldn’t, but it makes his cock twitch with a sharp jolt of heat, precome blurting from the tip. He says, fondness mixed with exasperation, “Jesus, Harry,” before gripping him in a firm hold, Harry throbbing perilously where his hand touches.

However, rather than the warm engulfing heat of Louis’ mouth, all Harry gets is the slow slide of his hand, and the press of his thumb along the underside of his cock. Harry’s stomach clenches as Louis thumbs over the tip, smearing precome down his hard length, and then again, lightly trailing fingers.

His breathing starts to get erratic when Louis leans in to ghost an exhale over the wet, and Harry’s hand fists tightly into the cotton, the other curling around Louis’ neck, as the throbbing in his cock intensifies, precome spilling.

“Fuck, Louis, please,” Harry groans.

By the time Louis finally wraps his lips around the head, Harry is about two panicked seconds away from coming, and in what might be the pinnacle of this morning’s embarrassing moments, all it takes is a dart of tongue and a tentative suck before Harry’s choking out Louis’ name in belated warning, spilling into his mouth.

He comes hard, heart drumming a pulsing beat he can feel right through his body, and it takes a while before his vision clears; a while to gain enough clarity to take in Louis, wide-eyed in shock and still on his knees, a smudge of come nestled into that same corner that was so recently covered in toothpaste.

Harry lets out a bark of embarrassed laughter, and it seems to break Louis from his surprised reverie because he too starts laughing, a loud cackle that’s warm enough to chase out any of the remaining chill.

“I’m really, truly sorry,” Harry starts to say, but Louis shakes his head, crawling up Harry’s body and slotting into his side.

“Believe me,” he says with a grin, “the things you’ve just done for my ego,” and Harry can’t help the next bout of giggles that burst forth, tears in his eyes.

The tension that had burned under his skin has turned into a simple, pure kind of bliss, like his body is running on light and adrenalin alone. He looks at Louis and it just keeps flowing electric, wave after wave, with each blink of clear blue eyes. When he kisses him the waves spill over, pouring out of his mouth in breathless ripples, and Harry thinks, that if this is drowning, then he’ll welcome it, mouth open and arms outstretched.

Beneath him, Louis’ smile has faded against his lips, and he starts nudging his hips forward insistently, the hardness of his own neglected cock pushing into Harry’s stomach. Harry feels Louis reach down, curling his hand around himself, and he pulls back, pushing Louis back gently against the bed.

He tugs at Louis’ boxers, pulling them off the marvel of his thighs and the delicate bones of his ankles, and he must stare too long, because Louis pokes his butterfly with his big toe and says, “You right there? Or are you coming over a bit Victorian?”

“Maybe,” Harry says, waggling his eyebrows, and he wraps his hand around his ankle, littering kisses along the ridges until Louis laughs and almost kicks him in the face with his foot.

Letting go, Harry slides up, hovering over Louis’ body as he grins up at him wickedly, then coiling his hand around Louis’ cock, pulling up quickly and watching the grin slip into an ‘O’. It’s probably more satisfying than warranted.

Harry slots himself between Louis’ legs and Louis wraps his arms around his neck once more, like he’s already decided that that’s where they belong, and lifts his chin in silent behest. It’s nothing that Harry can refuse, closing the gap once more while his hand works up and down Louis’ length.

Gradually, the kisses turn into harsh breaths, Louis clawing his hands into Harry’s scalp and shoulders as he heads closer to climax. Harry quickens his movements, swiping at the precome beading at the head, the rough of his palm against the smooth length of Louis’ cock, and Louis writhes under him, hooking his lovely ankle over Harry’s calf, trying to draw him impossibly closer.

Harry moves his mouth over the hollow of his throat and over the steep bow of his collarbones, murmuring, “Come on, babe. Go on.” He licks over one taut nipple and pinches just below the head, and Louis comes, just like that, body arching stiffly and come splattering over Harry’s hands and both their stomachs.

Harry continues mouthing along his flushed chest as he settles, until Louis pulls on his hair, making him look up.

He looks serious and spent and stupidly beautiful, and Harry thinks that ruination might not be strong enough a word for the feelings tearing their riotous way through his chest.

And then Louis says, solemn as anything, “Solid B plus,” and Harry laughs into the space of his neck, feeling Louis doing the same, and he thinks, maybe love isn’t ruination at all. It might just be like retraining a heart.

*

“Got some interesting taste in music, Styles,” Louis says as he scrolls through Harry’s iTunes, randomly selecting songs for a playlist that Harry had seen him dub ‘Post-Morning Sex (Just Got Laid)’. “Wouldn’t have picked you for a Kesha man meself, but nice to see some variety in amongst the old people music.”

“Hey,” Harry says, frowning, “just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s only for old people. Also, can you pass the whisk? It’s just in the second drawer.”

“Whatever you like to tell yourself,” Louis says, handing over a soup ladle and continuing his scrolling. Harry takes it uncertainly, then shrugs. It will have to do.

They’re in the kitchen downstairs. Harry is making apple and banana muffins with oats and mixed seeds, while Louis “provides the entertainment”, and somehow, despite the kitchen utensil confusion…here they are. On a Sunday morning, making breakfast and listening to Fleetwood Mac. 

There are still clouds hanging under the eaves and dimming the windows, but then there’s Louis, hips angled out as he leans against the counter, nodding along to _Say You Love Me_ , and the bottom of the joggers Harry gave him dragging on the floor under his socked feet, and it’s like – it’s like every single goddamn dream Harry has had ever since he was old enough to want this. 

He looks up from the playlist and catches Harry’s eye, his own instantly crinkling in a smile, and there’s this yawning hollow in Harry’s chest that feels like it’s slowly being filled, like it’s just been waiting there, aching for this boy to bury himself in there and make it his home.

Harry puts the muffins in the oven and moves behind Louis, circling his arms around his waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder. Louis leans back in his hold, pleased, and the track switches to _Go Your Own Way_ , and Harry’s arms tighten, nuzzling into the back of Louis’ neck.

“I fucking _love_ this song,” he moans, and Louis giggles, his body shaking in Harry’s hold. “Fuck, I was going to marry Stevie Nicks.”

Louis throws his head back, giggles mutating into full on laughter, and says, “Is there something you’re not telling me, Haz?” and Harry shakes his head with a grin, nips at the top of Louis’ spine. 

And then, in a sudden musical turn, Louis is spinning in his grasp and taking Harry’s face in his hands, eyes large and singing in a silly voice, “If I could, baby I’d give you my world.” 

And Harry’s grasping his wrists and singing back, just as ridiculously, “How can I, when you won’t take it from me?”

Louis pushes at his chest and walks him back like they’re recreating _Grease_ , and they both belt out the chorus, (“ _You can GO YOUR OWN WAY_ ”) laughing and dancing around the kitchen and doing rock faces that would rival Niall’s, three sheets to the wind and mid-karaoke.

Louis snatches up the soup ladle to use as a mic and the leftover batter goes flying, painting the counter and wall of Harry’s pristine kitchen and his own face, and still they sing, “ _You can call it another lonely day!_ ”

It’s a song of endings, of falling apart, but in this moment they’re magnetic, spinning around each other like they’re racing towards a glorious, inevitable collision, no end in sight. By the time the final strains of the song play through the tinny laptop speakers, Harry is almost collapsed on the floor in laughter, bun a loose mess, and Louis has his arms raised, hitting the ladle in the air like it’s Stevie’s tambourine.

The next song starts up, New Order’s _Temptation_ , and Louis extends a hand towards him, beckoning, eyebrow cocked in expectation.

Harry slouches up and sidles over, looming over him and backing him into the bench until Louis’ face collapses and he squeaks out a laugh.

“You _like_ my old people music,” Harry says, grinning, and Louis scrunches his nose in an effort to stop a smile.

“You dance like Grover from _Sesame Street_ , did you know that?” he says smartly. “Or like a long-lost member of the Wiggles. Like, are we even sure all your limbs are attached? That they’re not just dangling from your body willy-nilly? Because I’m honestly not convinced—”

Harry kisses him, hands coming up to cradle his cheeks and pouring every ounce of adrenaline, every bit of joy and wonder and adoration into it, opening his mouth to kiss him harder, sweeter, dearer.

Louis’ hands make their way under the loose hem of Harry’s shirt, smoothing up the planes of his back, and Harry gets lost in the feeling, so content to be touched and kissed back with care.

They kiss until the timer on the oven goes off and Louis sighs, nipping gently at Harry’s bottom lip and then kissing him again, then again like it’s an effort to move away.

“Come on, let’s eat,” Harry says, reluctantly pulling them apart, his hand lingering along the line of Louis’ neck, down his arm until the tips of his fingers. The soft of Louis’ skin remains like a welcome imprint even when he pulls the muffins out, even when he washes his hands clean.

Louis sets the bench up so they’re seated side by side and pours the juice, and Harry arranges a tray with the muffins and a selection of fruit, honey and butter to carry over. The clouds are gathering dark again, muting the light in the bakery, and Harry turns on the rattan ball lights, casting a pale yellow glow along the walls. It’s like the room is bordering on some in-between – not day, not night, not the dawning or setting of sun. A sort of twilight, outside of time and routine, and Harry wants to hold it in like a breath; keep it close and shielded and theirs.

They eat with knees touching, feet hooking together under the table, and music playing quietly from the kitchen, stealing bits from each other’s plates and licking honey from their fingers.

“It must be nice,” Louis says, nibbling on a piece of muffin smeared in a good inch of butter, “being able to just pop down to go to work like this.”

Harry shrugs, because it is nice, but. “Sometimes. It can almost feel like too much some days. I can’t really ever get away. It’s like, there’s no clear line between work and home, and I love my work, but.” He shrugs again, and Louis nudges him, taking his hand, muffin in the other. Harry stretches his fingers, linking them together, a little sticky.

“Yeah, I guess I can see that. It’s a bit like that for me sometimes, too, living with Li. We go to work together and then we’re at home and we’re still talking about that one song, that bit of guitar, the arrangement of that lyric. It can be great, because sometimes all you need to do is step out and get a bit of perspective, but sometimes,” he says, trailing off. He leans his head against Harry’s shoulder, a wonderful, comforting weight. He nibbles on the last remainder of the muffin in his hand. “This is really nice.”

“You only want me for my muffins,” Harry teases.

“Nonsense,” Louis says, squeezing his hand. “Don’t sell yourself short, Haz. I want you for your cakes and biscuits and pastries, too.”

Harry kisses the top of his head. They stay like that for a moment, until the rain finally starts to fall again, a speckling drizzle.

“I’d love to see your workplace for once,” Harry says suddenly, and Louis perks his head up. "You're always coming to me, watching me work." He winks. "Should return the favour."

“Yeah,” Louis says slowly with a grin. “I’d like that, too. Whenever you want.”

He squints, reaches up a hand, and Harry’s not sure what he’s doing until he wipes at the batter that’s splattered on Harry’s cheek with his thumb, sticking it in his mouth before Harry can stop him. He makes a face, saying, “So, this isn’t exactly lick the bowl material,” and Harry snorts unattractively.

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “Let’s clean up and head back, yeah?”

Harry piles the dishes into the industrial dishwasher for later, while Louis closes the laptop, cutting off the mournful wailing of Kate Bush and Peter Gabriel. He watches Louis bound over to the stairs, lifting the hems of his joggers, and the magnificent round of his arse moving under the cotton as he ascends.

“I know you’re sta-ring,” Louis singsongs, turning around near the top of the stairs, a step above him, hands on his hips, like Peter Pan about to take flight.

Harry’s gaze is one second delayed, slowly trailing up from his crotch to meet Louis’ amused look.

“What can I say?” Harry says, shuffling forward and resting his hands on the steep incline of Louis’ waist, so that their fingers overlap. Louis is taller than him like this, but Harry can sense him pushing up on his toes. “It’s a spectacular bum,” he says, words still coming out far later than his thoughts.

“The best,” Louis agrees, visibly preening.

“First class,” Harry says.

“A plus,” Louis says, and Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Well, we’ll have to see about that,” he says, voice low, and when Louis’ mouth drops open to argue, he moves his hands to pick him up under his thighs, and what comes out instead is a screech of protest and a huff of laughter.

Harry kisses him there, pressed up against the wall of the staircase, hands gripping into the meat of Louis’ thighs as Louis’ legs wrap around him tightly. One of Louis’ hands once more finds its way to the nape of Harry’s neck, threading through the loose curls that have escaped from his bun, while the other grasps at his shoulder, dragging him closer.

Harry licks into Louis’ mouth, sliding their tongues together and then teasing him with closed-mouth kisses until Louis lets out a whine beneath, biting into the soft flesh Harry’s bottom lip, urging him deeper and closer. He tastes like honey and apple and something altogether sweeter, and it makes Harry want to capture his lips again and again, until they taste like Harry, too.

Louis tilts Harry’s chin up with deft fingers, and smooths his lips over the pulse of his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin and sucking lightly, then harsher, canines dragging. His mouth is soft but demanding, slicking heat and biting along the straining tendon, leaving his own mark, signing his own space. His warm breath pools in the hollow of Harry’s throat and settles somewhere low in Harry’s groin, and he’s so close, Harry’s so completely enveloped by him, and his body shudders with it, biceps struggling to keep him near.

“Lou,” Harry groans when he finally pulls away, eyes hooded dark and lips shiny with spit. Louis still has a hand petting at his hair, but moves to press his thumb into the lovebite that’s newly blossomed and Harry moans with it, grinding his hips up against Louis’, pinning him to the wall.

“Let’s,” Louis says, licking his lips, “let’s get inside, yeah?” and Harry can only nod mindlessly, letting Louis slide down his thighs and lead him into his flat on shaking legs.

Before they even reach the bed, its sheets still a mess from earlier that morning, Harry’s on him again, pulling at Louis’ shirt and then his joggers, slipping them easily down his legs without finesse and ripping off his socks, leaving him standing in his already tented boxers.

“You too, come on,” Louis says, making a little noise of frustration, and he tugs at Harry’s clothes until he’s in a similar state, then pushes Harry’s boxers down and grapples with his own.

The sight of Louis naked before him isn’t new now, but somehow, having him like this, not even touching, pulls a surge of want from deep in Harry’s gut. He’s not really that much shorter than Harry but he seems it right now, with the delicate structure of his bones and the slope of his shoulders that make his chest curve inwards, compacting his body so it looks small and supple and beautiful. But even like this – even exposed and open like this – there’s a sharpness in his eyes; like if he wanted to he could conquer and claim him, pull him down or raise him up. And Harry’s beginning to wonder if he could ever want it any other way.

It’s Louis though that moves into his space, sliding his fingers across his stomach, tracing the guiding leaves of the laurels framing his torso. Harry’s breath stutters in his chest with each inch of skin he maps under his hands.

“God, you’re pretty,” Harry blurts out unexpectedly, and Louis lets out a sharp laugh before looking up beneath his eyelashes, blinking too sweetly to be incidental.

“Yeah?” he says softly, and Harry swallows hard.

“Yeah.”

“You going to fuck me?” Louis says, hands still moving over his skin, and the words seem to curve around the dim morning light, embedding themselves into divine shadows.

“Can I?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t mean it to sound like a plea. His fingers fumble to hold Louis’, stilling them at his ribs.

Shifting away, Louis draws himself from Harry’s grasp and crawls up the bed, looking over his shoulder with a grin. And Harry follows, moving with more grace than he knew he possessed, until he’s kneeling over him, hands planted either side of Louis’ head. Any grace exhibited is quickly negated when he leans down too quickly, too eager, teeth clacking as they kiss. A giggle rises in his throat, Louis smiling into his mouth, but he pets at Harry’s sides, his face, his back, until each stroke has tamed the tremor under his skin.

Louis’ knees come up to bracket Harry’s, drawing him closer into the kiss, and Harry melts into it willingly, the mattress cushioning the slide of his legs and the points of his elbows as he holds himself up. He sinks down until their cocks, already fully hard, rub together between them, the tips wetting their stomachs and hips. Even that small bit of contact has Harry rutting forward, pressing his cock into the cease of Louis’ thigh, and in response Louis arches up into him with a shaky sigh. Their mouths are slick against each other, biting and licking with purpose, and Harry feels like he could do this infinitely, feeling the soft and the hard of the boy beneath him, treading the line somewhere between indulgence and satisfaction.

But this is not how it’s supposed to end. Louis wedges a hand between their bodies, his breath turning to damp pants on Harry’s tongue, and tries to take them both within his grasp, fingers slipping against their stomachs. Harry lets out a short grunt, ducking his head to lean on Louis’ shoulder when Louis’ fingers scrape along the head, and then grips them together in a dry slide. The feeling of Louis’ palm, firm and smooth and burning up with each slow tug, combined with Louis’ hard cock pulsing along his own, pushes Harry further towards an already precarious edge; has him jerking his hips into Louis’ hand and moaning into the sharp line of Louis’ collarbone.

“ _God, Louis._ ”

Pressing them together at the head, Louis gathers the precome for a steady, torturous downward glide, and when he reaches the base, Harry has to grab his wrist in a clenched fist, stilling his hand there.

“Haz?” Louis says, the roughness in his voice belying the steadiness of his hand.

“Just— just hang on,” Harry says, words slurred into Louis’ skin, and Louis loosens his grip, once more petting at Harry’s hair and down his back.

Harry raises his head from Louis’ chest to see him smiling up at him, and he can’t help but return it, the tension seeping slightly out of his muscles. He kisses at Louis’ lips, his nose, his eyebrows and cheeks – now his favourite thing to do – until Louis starts laughing and swatting at his shoulders.

“Are you going to prep me or are we going to have another unexpected incident?” Louis teases.

Harry bites at his shoulder. “ _No._ That was a one time thing, and not at all a reflection of my sexual prowess.”

“Oh really?” Louis says, grinning and raising a sceptical eyebrow.

“Yes,” Harry says. He leans down quickly to blow a raspberry on Louis’ stomach before he has time to react, making him wriggle away with a squeak.

He should know by now that there is nothing Louis will let go unchecked. Harry reaches over to the box on the window sill to retrieve the lube and a condom, but when he picks it up, Louis kicks him in his bare arse and the contents go spilling; the multitude of Niall’s gifted condoms scattering over the sill and bed.

“Oh my God,” Louis gasps through helpless laughter. “Someone came prepared.”

“They’re from Niall!” Harry protests, sweeping them back in the box, but Louis just cackles harder.

“I wasn’t aware that Niall had to buy your condoms for you!”

“Not on the regular or anything,” Harry says, finally grabbing the lube and one solitary condom and crawling back to Louis, who is shaking his head in something like astonishment.

“You are—”

“Unbelievable, I know,” Harry says, leaning down to kiss at the juncture of Louis’ neck. “You’re shocked by how incredible my delegating and organisational skills are.”

Louis laughs. “Yeah, I’m completely in awe, babe. Honestly not sure I’ll ever recover.”

Harry grins down at him and Louis grins back, cheeks flushed and sharp and eyes bright even in the shadowy light of the oncoming storm.

Harry has to kiss him one last time, everything he hasn’t yet said spelled across in static breath and careful lips, before beginning to move down Louis’ chest.

Louis’ breath hitches as he works his way lower, the rise and fall of his ribs like gathering waves under Harry’s palms. He places a kiss in the middle of his sternum, nips at the soft of his tummy, and licks at the tip of his leaking cock, and each reaction is a wondrous, rapturous revelation. Louis sighs and twists his bones, and the wave rolls through him down the arch of his spine to the tips of his toes as if drawn by lunar gravity. And Harry can only hope of pulling him closer, closer still, until they’re irreversibly caught in each other’s orbit.

He pushes Louis’ knees up and spreads his thighs, then snicks open the lube, generously coating his fingers. Allowing Louis to hook his leg over his shoulder, Harry steadies his left hand on the underside of Louis’ thigh, and when he looks up at Louis he finds him staring back with unblinking eyes.

“Yeah?” Harry says, stroking a finger lightly over Louis’ hole, and Louis squints at him, before his head falls back on the pillow, a wild laugh escaping.

“Yeah, Haz. Yeah.”

Harry presses a kiss to the inside of his knee, takes a deep breath, before slipping inside the tip of the finger that’s gently stroking over Louis’ hole. Louis squirms a little, but Harry holds firmly to his thigh, rubbing around the rim, smearing lube, before once more dipping in. Millimetre by millimetre, he pushes inside, stroking slowly and listening carefully to each hitch of breath, each small noise that Louis unwittingly emits, until Louis is nudging Harry’s head with his knee, saying softly, “Come on, Haz.”

Harry slides further down on the bed, watching as Louis’ rim stretches around the second finger pushing in, flushed red and clenching reflexively. He mouths at the skin of Louis’ thigh, strong muscle flexing beneath his lips, and works in a dark, wet mark as his fingers work inside, scissoring and curling deeper.

Above him, Louis lets out a soft moan, and Harry can’t help biting into the flesh a little harder, nor the instinctive way he ruts into the sheets below, aching for some kind of relief. It’s not long before searching fingers brush the soft outline of Louis’ prostate, his knuckles catching at the rim, and Louis’ soft moan turns into a sharp inhale.

“Haz, fuck,” Louis says, words wavering. “Just—”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says, just as unevenly. “I’ve got you.”

Burning with the overwhelming need to watch this boy fall apart beneath him, he quickens his pace, pumping his fingers in steadily and aiming for that spot that has Louis’ toes curling where they’re pressing into his back. He moves his mouth to the underside of Louis’ cock, which lies hard and leaking against his stomach, and sucks wetly at the base, before licking up the line of his vein. When he flattens his tongue, sliding it over the tip and tasting salt and bitterness, he twists his fingers, pushing more firmly against the walls. He wraps his lips around the head, feeling the pleasant heaviness on his tongue, and when he sucks lightly he feels Louis shudder below him, in his mouth and around his fingers, and where his shoulder and chest touch at Louis’ skin.

Lost a little in the feeling, Harry curls his tongue around the head, and it has Louis thrusting up loosely and suddenly, his cock slipping from between Harry’s lips and smearing precome along his cheek.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says, laughing a little breathlessly when Harry lets out a rough “Hey.” He reaches down to tug at one of Harry’s straying curls. “Come here, come here.”

Leaning over Louis once more, Harry says, “Can you take another?” and through a strained laugh, Louis replies, “I better fucking hope so. I’ve seen your dick, Styles.”

His fingers find the hair tie still holding Harry’s bun in place and flings it across the bed, letting Harry’s hair fall across his face. Harry lets him tuck the strands neatly behind his ears before patting his cheek, saying rather too imperiously for the state he’s in, “Okay, off you go now.”

In retaliation, Harry twists his wrist one more time, then withdraws his fingers before adding a third on the inward thrust, and the fingers that are tangled in his hair tug sharply, the grin dropping from Louis’ face.

Above him, Harry can see the flush that’s spread down Louis’ torso, around the hardened points of his nipples, under the sweat spotting his smooth skin, and the curls of hair high on his chest and trailing down from his stomach. He looks soft and solid and open, and even when teasing and demanding, he’s still the loveliest thing that Harry’s ever been close to having; the loveliest thing he’s ever wanted to just hand himself over to, heart and body and everything unseen. 

He focuses on opening him up, stretching his fingers and pushing them against Louis’ walls; feels himself thickening up with just the thought that soon it won’t be his fingers stroking inside that tight heat. He kisses again at Louis’ thigh and when he looked up Louis crosses his eyes, sticks his tongue out like the ludicrous person that he is, even while breathing rapidly and three fingers deep.

Harry laughs, moves forward to peck his lips, and says, “I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Fucking finally,” Louis says. “Thought I was going to do a you and come too early.”

“Excuse me,” Harry says, pushing in a little harder and hitting his prostate again. Louis lets out an undignified, strangled sound below him and promptly turns red. “I thought we’d already established that that was an isolated incident.”

Louis stutters out a laugh, reaching down to grip his leaking cock when Harry continues pressing down on that stop, rubbing firmly.

“Harry, please,” Louis says, wriggling down on his fingers, half-giggling, half-moaning. “I take it back, _please_.”

Harry withdraws his fingers suddenly, and Louis’ whole body slumps into the sheets.

“My hands—” Harry begins, and Louis groans, reaching for the condom.

Harry knees his way further up Louis’ body, cock bobbing ridiculously in front of him, and Louis dutifully smooths the condom down, only rolling his eyes a little when Harry shivers at his touch.

Harry lunges for him again after, kissing his face and neck all over until Louis bats him away, saying through shrill laughter, “Harry! Don’t you dare make me beg!”

Using the remaining lube to slick himself up, trying so hard not to touch himself more than necessary, Harry finally lines himself up at Louis’ swollen and stretched rim

Louis spreads his legs wider, and Harry places his hands on his knees, squeezing gently.

“Okay?” he says, and Louis nods.

“Yeah.”

Harry leans down, kisses his nose once more, waiting for Louis to link his hands behind his neck, before he slowly begins to guide himself in. Harry kisses him softly as the head of his cock slips past the rim, waiting for the almost unbearable tightness to relax around him incrementally. Louis feels incredible, all clenching heat and supple skin, and urging Harry on with tiny rolls of his hips, that only encourage him to reinforce his tainted reputation.

He pants harshly into Louis’ mouth, Louis’ hands fisting rhythmically at his nape and through the strands of his hair, and when he finally slips the rest of the way in, there’s an almost visceral intensity layered between the filtered light and their heated bodies.

Louis shifts and settles his weight on Harry’s cock, emitting a small sigh, and the muscles in Harry’s back and down his stomach twitch in barely held restraint.

With a nudge from Louis, Harry begins the move, slow grinds rather than thrusts, rocking gently into him, hips pressed along Louis’ arse. It’s not nearly a fraction of what he wants to do, but he continues in small circular motions until Louis kisses him, bites at his lip and says, “More.”

He slides out further, until only the head of his cock is clutched within Louis’ tight heat, before rolling in again in a swift, smooth motion, causing a moan to loose from Louis’ throat. The walls constrict around his cock, wrapping him in warmth, and he’s so tight, the pressure almost unbearable like pure undiluted pleasure should always be. Again and again he thrusts in, in firm and steady movements that aim to untuck the bedclothes so they’re bundled around them, until Louis is digging his fingers in and gasping, blue eyes wide and dark.

“ _Harry_ ,” he says, and it comes out a little broken and bent, and Harry grunts, speeding up his thrusts, not sure how much longer he can hold out.

He moves his hands from Louis’ knees to his arse, pulling him up and letting Louis wrap his legs around him, driving into him and searching for that angle that has Louis letting out a sudden shout, nails scratching jagged at his skin.

For a minute the only sounds in the room are the panting of breaths and the slapping of skin and the heavy patter of rain against the skylight. Harry’s thighs are beginning to go numb from the strain, but Louis’ heels dig into his arse, insistent and demanding, and he thrusts harder, burying his face in Louis’ neck and chasing the climax.

“Come on,” Louis says roughly, kissing the edge of his ear. “Let go, babe.”

His hips stutter, grinding stiffly into Louis before he comes, and it’s like his breath is being shaken out from him. His toes curl into the mattress and his fingers grip into the skin of Louis’ arse, pulling him down as he rides out his high, which stretches through all those dormant muscles in his body, all those sleeping organs and veins.

When his bones finally unlock, he looks up to see Louis staring up at him, fingers scratching into his skull, and sweetness and need etched into the corner of his eyes.

“Gonna give me a hand, babe, or you done now?” Louis says, teasing, and Harry releases a short laugh, before moving a hand down and gripping Louis’ hard red cock between them.

“So demanding,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ lips, and Louis just nods, sighing when Harry flicks his wrist.

“Always. Got to get used to it, Haz,” he says, and Harry kisses him, pressing so close, his heart beating out forever in a staccato rhythm.

Even though he’s feeling wrung out and sensitive, Harry begins to move his hips again, nudging soft noises from the boy beneath him and moving his hand firmly up and down, increasing the pressure to pull him closer to climax. He keeps going until Louis is keening and tensing, knotting his fingers in Harry’s hair and spilling over his hand.

Harry kisses him through it, continues slotting their lips in place and chasing his taste until Louis comes down; until the throbbing, painful clench around his cock relaxes and fingers are once more patting absently at his head. When Louis pulls him back by the neck and Harry slips out of him, they both wince at the ache and the emptiness.

Harry looks at Louis, his half-lidded eyes and the permanent curl of mischief at his mouth, and the rain is pounding at the door, but they are here, drowning willingly amidst the bedclothes and legs tangled together like seaweed, and he feels steady and safe and warm.

*

After dozing for a few minutes, Harry reaches for Louis’ hand and pulls him up from the bed. He walks them to the bathroom, even while Louis grumbles, naked and smeared in drying come.

In the shower, Louis relaxes, lazy and sated, and lets Harry manoeuvre him into place. Harry turns the water warm enough to match the heat that still lingers in their bodies, and washes the sweat from them, running his hands over the soft of Louis’ belly and wiping away the remnants of his orgasm.

“Do you want to wash your hair?” Harry asks quietly, barely audible under the shower. Louis just hums in response, eyes still closed, and Harry takes it as agreement, reaching for his chamomile and citrus shampoo and squirting a small amount into his hands.

He murmurs, “Going to wash your hair, keep your eyes closed,” and Louis reaches out to touch lightly at his hips, keeping still and balanced.

Harry’s hands work through the fine strands, dragging fingertips against his skull, and they look large and ungainly against the fine bone structure of Louis’ face. Suds run quickly down the sides of Louis’ cheeks and over his ears, and Harry swipes them away before they reach his eyes, tipping his head back gently, and feeling a deep pull in his chest when Louis’ eyelashes flutter and his mouth immediately parts. Harry kisses his forehead, his lips, tasting shampoo, and Louis moves pliantly under his ministrations, coming easily when Harry prods him back under the spray.

Louis is beginning to sway slightly, boneless and tired, and one soft touch at his waist has him pressing his forehead against Harry’s chest, hands coming up to make fists on his ribs. He feels small and completely vulnerable, and it makes Harry’s breath thicken and stick in his throat. He winds his arms around Louis’ shoulders, pulling him closer so their bodies align under the warm water and he can feel the slow thudding of Louis’ heart as it dips back towards sleep. Harry presses his lips to the top of his head, eliciting a contented sigh, and he thinks he could stay here forever, water beating at their backs, wrapped up in soft-skinned warmth, and an ache of emotion flooding every point of contact.

When he’s done, he reaches around to turn off the taps, and Louis whines and almost pitches forward when Harry steps out of the shower, helping him onto the mat.

They dry slowly, Louis sluggishly lifting his limbs and allowing Harry to rub at his hair, and when they fall back into bed, they’re still a little damp, still very naked, and so very tired. Upon lying down though, Louis still manages to find the energy to push Harry onto his side and plaster himself at his back, slotting their legs together and throwing his arm around Harry’s waist, heavy and graceless.

It’s only just before lunch, and Louis’ skin is sticking a little to his back, and his hands, even now, cling a little too roughly, but Harry falls asleep almost instantly, lulled by the subtle rise and fall of Louis’ chest and fading thunder.

*

They spend the rest of the day lounging around, making sandwiches out of the leftovers from last night’s dinner, and marathoning _Homeland_ in bed. Harry had woken up to approximately 15 texts from Niall, which ranged from ‘are you dying ?’ to ‘ged in ya old dog !’, and then back to ‘seriously let me know if you’re okay, call me :|’, and Harry is so blessed, so grateful really, even when he wants to strangle him.

For dinner Louis makes a comment about ordering Domino’s to Harry’s scandalised horror, and they end up making pizzas with spiced minced lamb, dill and mint yogurt, red onion, kale and beetroot. Harry rolls the dough out and Louis cuts the beetroot into uneven, misshapen chunks – which he shows to Harry with a raised eyebrow as if daring him to comment – and they kiss cross-legged on the floor in front of the oven while it’s baking, the heat warming the sides of their faces.

When it’s done and they’re eating in front of the telly, Louis says, “So this is how it’s going to be, is it?” and it sounds much more thoughtful than accusatory. Harry kisses him with grease-stained lips and imagines what Christmas dinner will be like, and whether Louis will love the rhubarb, grapefruit, and chicory-flavoured desserts of spring, and what he’ll make next Sunday for tea.

Later, Louis presses him to the mattress, fingers entangled with his, and kisses the crumbs from his mouth – grinds them together achingly slow for what seems like a small eternity, until they shudder through drawn-out orgasms.

Louis kisses his neck, satiated and sweet and smelling of citrus, and the night settles starlit above them.

*

“So, do I need to bleach any of the surfaces?” Niall asks come Monday, examining the bakery with a critical eye. He leans over and makes a show of sniffing the counter, while Harry rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, we had sex right there. And in the kitchen. And on the bench, and you know, we had sex on your apron too, so you might want to chuck that out,” Harry says.

Niall frowns at him, hands on hips. “Did you remember to wear protection?” 

“Oh my God, Niall!” Harry groans, burying his face in his hands, and Niall cackles, job obviously done.

There’s not much time to say anything after that, customer after customer trailing in, and Niall and Harry busy serving and packing up boxes and wrapping loaves of bread. Ed Sheeran’s on rotation, and Aalia comes in and shows him her flawless wedding photos, and there’s a lightness in his movements, in his chest, a rightness in the set of his shoulders.

Louis arrives just after noon, and Harry drags him into the back of the kitchen and holds him close by the lapels of his denim jacket, and snogs him up against the storage shelf, bags of sugar and flour swaying dangerously in place.

“Hey you,” Louis says when they pull apart, and his eyes are crinkled at the corners, nose pink from the cold outside and hair ruffled across his forehead. There’s a feeling welling up inside of Harry, spreading from the soles of his feet to the tips of his ears, and it floods through him every time Louis looks at him.

When they finally leave the kitchen, Niall is standing with his arms crossed at the counter, muttering, “Fucking unsanitary.” Harry can still see the smile there though, hidden in the turn of his head.

Louis picks out two of the rose water and cranberry macarons, two of the ginger and date, and two of the spiced walnut and coconut, and Harry lets Niall package them up with only minimal grumbling.

“So, we’re actually demo-ing a new guy tomorrow at the studio,” Louis says, bouncing a little on his toes. “He’s got a really unique sound, and does kind of rock mixed with soul.”

“Yeah?” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Louis says, nodding. “Thought you might like to come round, see how we do things for a few hours in the afternoon, if you can.”

“That sounds good,” Harry says, and there’s a smile spreading across his face. “I’ll ask Jade to cover for me.”

Louis beams at him. He steps up on the balls of his feet to kiss Harry fleetingly, hand just curling around the back of his neck and retreating before Harry can hold him in place.

“Okay, excellent, brilliant. I’ve got to head back now, but I’ll call you later, yeah?” he says, and then he’s already halfway out the door, shouting, “Bye, Haz! Bye, Niall!” and leaving Harry standing there, a grin on his lips and love on his tongue.

Niall groans beside him. “Idiot forgot his macarons,” and Harry laughs, picking up the box.

“Don’t worry, I’ll chase him down,” he says. He barely registers Niall calling out to him as he runs out, a surprised “Wait!”, and then he’s jogging down the street, weaving between the crowds of people to find Louis.

He spots him at the lights, standing under a shop’s sunblind, waiting for them to turn green.

“Louis!” he shouts above the street traffic, and Louis lifts his head, surprised but pleased when he appears in front of him.

It takes a moment for Harry to notice the rainwater soaking Louis’ clothes and darkening his flattened hair, and dripping down the sides of his face.

“You forgot your macarons!” he says over the sound of the rain beginning to come down, battering at the rooftops and canvassed doorways.

Louis laughs and takes the box, cardboard already dampening. “Christ, I’m an idiot. You didn’t have to chase after me, though, you’re drenched!”

“Don’t care,” Harry says, and his cheeks hurt from how much he’s smiling, how stupidly happy he is to be right here, right now, shivering in the cold wet and with this forgetful, ridiculous boy in front of him, looking at him with clear, radiant eyes. Like there’s nothing worth hiding.

They huddle close, the storm splashing puddles at their damp feet and the dark sky breaking apart above them, and it’s like the world is moving around them, holding them present. 

Harry looks up at the sky, cold pinpricks of rain dotting his skin, and when he opens his mouth, he tastes metal and clouds and hope on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say [hi :D](http://onewasturning.tumblr.com/)


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